She looked alarmed—being her mother’s own daughter, in lack of the sense of humor as in many other ways. She said hastily: “The upstairs rooms are a little better.”
“They couldn’t be worse. These rooms are cold storage.”
“I’m getting used to it,” said she. “One doesn’t mind it so much after a while.”
Her nose was red and swollen, and her voice husky. She had a frightful cold at that very moment. “Why don’t you get out of here and go to a decent modern hotel in town?” said I.
“Give up possession!” cried she in horror. “He might not let me come back.”
It was too ridiculous. “Possession of what?” said I.
“Oh, papa!” cried she, in despair and shame at my coarse stupidity.
“Possession of what?” I repeated. “Of a dirty, dingy old cold-storage plant. Why should you want to come back? Put on your wraps and let’s fly to town by the next train.”
She burst into tears. “I’d rather die!” she sobbed. “I won’t give up my position. I am Marchioness of Crossley and I belong here.”
“All right,” said I. “Let’s try the smaller rooms.”