“Oh, I don’t know.” She dropped her black head to her knees. “It’s so lonely.”
“Well,” he began again, “I really came to tell you that there’s a house to let on The Green: that little one with the red roof like a cap and windows that squint; a little old house; but—” he paused—“it has every modern convenience. Henrietta, there’s a curl at the back of your neck.”
“I know. It’s always there.”
“I can’t go on about the house unless you sit up.”
“Why?”
“Because of that curl.”
“And I’m not interested in the house.” She did not move. “Whose is it?”
“It belongs to a client of ours, but that doesn’t matter. The point is that it’s to let. I’ve got an order to view. Look!—‘Please admit Mr. Charles Batty.’ I went this evening and we can both go to-morrow. It’s really a very cosy little house. There’s a drawing-room opening on the garden at the back, with plenty of room for a grand piano, and the dining-room—I liked the dining-room very much. There was a fire in it.”
“Is that unusual?”
“It looked so cosy, with a red carpet and everything.”