Somebody was standing in the entrance, but it was obviously a very respectable somebody. A dumpy, motherly somebody in a seal-skin coat and a preposterous bonnet.
“Hullo,” said T. X. in surprise, “are you trying to get in here?”
“I want to see Mr. Meredith,” said the visitor, in the mincing affected tones of one who excused the vulgar source of her prosperity by frequently reiterated claims to having seen better days.
“Your longing shall be gratified,” said T. X. gravely.
He unlocked the heavy door, passed through the uncarpeted passage—there are no frills on Government offices—and led the way up the stairs to the suite on the first floor which constituted his bureau.
He switched on all the lights and surveyed his visitor, a comfortable person of the landlady type.
“A good sort,” thought T. X., “but somewhat overweighted with lorgnettes and seal-skin.”
“You will pardon my coming to see you at this hour of the night,” she began deprecatingly, “but as my dear father used to say, 'Hopi soit qui mal y pense.'”
“Your dear father being in the garter business?” suggested T. X. humorously. “Won't you sit down, Mrs. ——”
“Mrs. Cassley,” beamed the lady as she seated herself. “He was in the paper hanging business. But needs must, when the devil drives, as the saying goes.”