‘I wish I was a book-worm like her,’ he said. ‘But in London you get so much more opportunity for study of all sorts. She had a British Museum ticket, and studied at the Polytechnic.’
Keeling picked up the Singleton Morte d’Arthur and carefully blew a grain of cigarette ash from the opened page.
‘Let me know when she comes,’ he said. ‘I might be able to find her some job, if she still wants work. Perhaps your mother’s death has made her independent.’
He paused a moment.
‘Naturally I don’t want to be impertinent in inquiring into your affairs, Propert,’ he said. ‘Don’t think that. But if I can help, let me know. Going, are you? Good-bye; don’t forget to order me Beardsley’s Morte d’Arthur.’
He walked out with him into the square Gothic hall with its hideous tiles, its castellated chimney-piece, its painted wheelbarrow, its card-bearing crocodile, and observed Propert going towards the green-baize door that led to the kitchen passage.
‘Where are you going?’ asked Keeling.
‘I always come and go this way, sir,’ said Propert.
Keeling opened the front door for him.
‘This is the proper door to use, when you come to see me,’ he said.