She went back to the gloomy sitting-room eager to communicate to Miss Holland the newly revealed life of the household.
“M’no,” said Miss Holland, “the man Perrance I have not so far seen. His wife I fear is a poor thing. A countrywoman, from Devonshire. London conditions, though I gather she has lived here ever since her marriage, are too much for her. And it is only too evident that she does not recognise the necessity for hygiene. Everything in their quarters is, I fear, most unwholesome. And to make matters worse, they keep, like so many childless Londoners of that class, innumerable cats. I fear she rarely bestirs herself. He, I understand, brings in all foods. And requires a great deal of cookery. She complains in a mopy, resigned way, about that. I fear they do not agree any too well. There are, very frequently, loud discussions going on when I come in at night.”
She spoke with disdainful rapidity, as if eager to make way for other themes.
“He’s a freak, from a circus, the perfect mountebank. But there’s something, as there always is in a charlatan.”
“I fear I’m no psychologist. I’ve not seen the man as yet, but I fear, I fear his voice sounds suspiciously thick. M—— you’ve seen him?”
“He’s given me that finger from the window. I suppose it’s a paper-weight.”
Miss Holland was transformed. Flushed and frowning with incredulous approval.
“But what a charming tribute!” she cried. “Indeed, I am surprised. Most certainly I should not have credited Perrance with so much perception.”
“I wish he hadn’t. I can’t live up to graceful attentions.”
“No need, no need.” She was speaking meditatively towards the shaded lamp. “You have the secret of charm, an enchanting possession. Is it not enough?”