“Have you?”
“You don't know how you have stirred our curiosity. We haven't had a good night's rest since you moved in.”
“I've no doubt of it,” she laughed. “Won't you come in? I'd like to tell you all about it.”
“I also prepared to make excuses for not stopping,” I said, “and thought up various kinds of urgent business, such as buying a new snow shovel to use next winter, but after making these excuses I intended to stop—if I were sufficiently urged.”
“You are more than urged: you are commanded.”
As I followed her up the walk she said earnestly:
“Will you do me a favour? When you come in will you tell me the first impression my living-room gives you? No second thoughts. Tell me instantly.”
“I'll do it.” I said, my mind leaping eagerly to all manner of mysterious surprises.
At the centre of the room she turned toward me and with a sweeping backward motion of the arms, made me a bow—a strong figure instinct with confident grace: a touch of gray in the hair, a fleeting look of old sadness about the eyes.
“Now, David Grayson,” she said, “quick!”