The bell rang again, but Tottie took her time. Going to the fireplace, she turned "The Lorelei" to the wall; then slipping the shawl from her shoulders, she draped it carelessly over the plaster statuette of the diving-girl. After which she stepped back, appraised the effect, and went to open the front door to a large, ill-tempered man in a loose sack suit, and a young man, tall and white to ghastliness, whose nostrils quivered and whose mouth was scarcely more than a blue line.
"Good-morning," began Balcome, entering without being asked.
"Won't you step in?" begged Tottie, pointedly.
The door to the back-parlor had opened to a crack. And a face distorted with fear looked through the narrow opening. Clare heard the invitation, and the entering men. She shut the door softly.
Tottie followed her visitors. This was a transformed Tottie—all airs and graces, with just the touch of the dramatic that might be expected from a great "star." Indeed, she paused a moment, framed by the doorway, and waited before delivering her accustomed preamble. She smiled at the elder man, who returned a scowl. She bestowed a brighter smile on Wallace, who failed to see it, but licked at his lips, and smoothed his throat, like a man suddenly gone dry. Then she entered, slowly, gracefully, allowing the teagown to trail.
"As I say," she began, turning her head from side to side with what was intended to be a pretty movement, "—as I say, it's a real joy to room your theatrical friends. Because they fetch y' such swell callers."
Balcome, with no interest in this information, aimed toward Wallace a gesture that was meant to start the matter in hand.
Wallace rallied his wits. "Is Miss—er—Crosby at home?" he asked.
"Miss Crosby," repeated Tottie, with her very best honey-huskiness; "oh, she don't rent here no more."
He reddened in an excess of relief.