There was a young man at the front door—a man with a quick, nervous manner. He wore clothes that were unmistakably English, and pince-nez from which hung a narrow black ribbon. And he carried a cane. As he took off his derby to greet the landlady with studied courtesy, his hair showed sparse across the top of his head. His mustache worn short, was touched with gray.
"She's out yodelin' somewheres, Mr. Hull," informed Tottie, filling the doorway inhospitably, but unconsciously.
Hull's face fell. "Well,—well, do you mind if I wait for her?" he asked.
"Oh, come in. Come in."
He came, with a stride that was plainly acquired in uniform. His cane hung smartly on his left arm. He carried his head high.
It was Tottie's conviction that he was the son of a nobleman—perhaps even of a duke; and that he was undoubtedly an erstwhile officer in the King's service. She was respectful to Hull, even a little awe-struck in his presence. He had a way of looking past her when he spoke, of treating her as he might an orderly who was making a report. With him, she always adopted a certain throaty manner of speaking,—a deep, honey huskiness for which a well-known actress, who was a favorite of hers, was renowned, and which she had carefully practiced. How many times of a Sunday, cane in hand, had she seen him come down that street to her steps, wearing a silk hat. Sometimes for his sake alone she wished that she could dispense with that laundry.
"Then she didn't get my letter," said Hull.
"Can't say," answered Tottie, taking her eyes from the mantelpiece.
Hull spied the envelope. "No; here it is. You see, I didn't think I could follow it so soon."
Mrs. Colter had risen, and was struggling with her veil.