He swung round into Flaxman’s Court, and Miriam, following, paused for joy, mentally summoning heralds to precede and a brass band to follow him, so stately with head held high and plunging gait controlled to a military strut, was his entry into the humble street. He stopped just as she moved aside to gain her door, swung right about and bore down upon her, bowing, slouch hat in hand.
“Allow me!” a deep hollow stage voice.
She halted surprised. He was close by her side, his hat replaced with a flourishing movement that released from his person the thick odour of stale smoke, the permanent smell of the ground floor. The grotesque figure, now crouching, all dilapidated cape and battered sombrero, over the keyhole, was the owner of the windowful of stone and marble.
“Enter madam,” he declaimed, flinging open the door. Thanking him, she moved into the passage and was going on towards the stairs, but the hollow tones broke forth again, reverberating in the narrow space made dark by the closing of the door:
“I am greatly honoured,” he was saying, “by this event.”
She turned perforce. He was again profoundly bowing. She could just discern the dim outlines, the cape winged out by his deep obsequiousness.
“You will, I trust,” the voice was meditative, suggesting words ahead to be delivered with care: “not deem me intrewsive in expressing in your gracious presence,” indeed, Miriam felt, her presence was gracious compared to this exhalation of concentrated odours stifling and making her long to be away and up the stairs, “my respect and furthermore the great and happy en’ancement arriving upon this house by your coming, with your lady friend, also most gracious, to abide beneath the roof that shelters my spouse and myself.”
“We like being here,” said Miriam, politely, smiling into the darkness.
“Lady, I thank you for your graciousness.”
“Not at all,” she said, and felt him silent for an instant before an evidently unexpected lapse from gracious ladyhood.