“Come into the sitting-room, won’t you, and rest a minute?”
“Well, I don’t mind.”
Elsie reflected that there would probably be a fire in the sitting-room, and in her own room it was cold, and she knew that the bed was still unmade.
She followed Mrs. Williams into the sitting-room, where Mr. Williams sat reading a Sunday illustrated paper.
“Horace, this poor child is quite upset. Give her a seat, dear.”
“It’s all right,” said Elsie, confused.
She had only seen Mr. Williams half a dozen times. He always breakfasted and went out early, and Elsie, of late, had eaten her supper in the kitchen. They had met at meal-times on Sundays, but she had never spoken to him, and thought him elderly and uninteresting.
Mr. Williams was indeed forty-three years old, desiccated and inclined to baldness, a small, rather paunchy man.
His little, hard grey eyes gleamed on Elsie now from behind his pince-nez.
“No bad news, I hope?” His voice was dry, and rather formal, with great precision of utterance.