"Any name?" Burton asked.
The caretaker looked thoughtfully up at the ceiling.
"Said she was your wife, sir. Sorry if I've done wrong. It came over me afterwards that I'd been a bit rash."
Burton threw open the door of his sitting-room and closed it quickly behind him. It was indeed Ellen who was sitting in the most uncomfortable chair, with her arms folded, in an attitude of grim but patient resignation. She was still wearing the hat with the wing, the mauve scarf, the tan shoes, and the velveteen gown. A touch of the Parisienne, however, was supplied to her costume by a black veil dotted over with purple spots. Her taste in perfumes was obviously unaltered.
"Ellen!" he exclaimed.
"Well?" she replied.
As a monosyllabic start to a conversation, Ellen's "Well?" created difficulties. Instead of his demanding an explanation, she was doing it. Burton was conscious that his opening was not brilliant.
"Why, this is quite a surprise!" he said. "I had no idea you were here."
"Dare say not," she answered. "Didn't know I was coming myself till I found myself on the doorstep. Kind of impulse, I suppose. What have you been doing to little Alf?"
Burton looked at her in bewilderment.