“And now,” he said, when the money had changed hands, “there’s the problem of finding a place for you to live.”
He suggested several places for her to telephone, and she did so. The extreme propriety of both of them forbade his appearing in any such transaction. There was nothing suitable to be had; as a very last resort he proposed the Eagle House, and there she was obliged to go.
“I’ll call this evening, if I may,” he said, “to see if you’re all right.”
III
The Eagle House was little changed from the days when Frankie had lunched there, the same four-story, brown brick building with awnings, much the worse for wear, boldly marked “Eagle House.” It still derived its support from the “Pool Room and Café,” reached by a separate entrance, but something had been done for the comfort of the “guest,” as well—a sun-baked, uneven little tennis court now appeared on the hitherto vacant lot beside the hotel. Inside it was just as sordid, as fly-blown, as horribly gloomy.
But Minnie was not fastidious. She discovered that there was at least one other lady stopping there, the wife of a visiting cotton-mill magnate, and that satisfied her. With her child by the hand she walked sedately through the lobby, thick with tobacco smoke, crowded with the travelling salesmen and the village loafers who composed the clientele of the Eagle House, and went upstairs to take possession of a tiny bedroom with a single bed for both of them. It was very cheap and that was what she required. She unpacked their very few belongings quite cheerfully and washed the little girl’s face.
“Shan’t we be happy here!” she said.
They were rather late in coming down, and the dining room was full of men, the waitresses flying round, exchanging sallies with the guests, a brilliant glare pouring down from an electrolier high overhead. Minnie stood in the doorway, still holding the child’s hand, a little bewildered by the noise and bustle and by the frankness with which everyone turned to regard them. Unassailably respectable, she met and countered the general regard and with dignity advanced to a little table in a corner. A book was brought for the little girl to sit on and an interested waitress presented a grease-spotted menu. They ate their meal composedly; once in a while the clear voice of the child could be heard asking a question. It behaved wonderfully well. It ate what its mother ate, without regard for any silly modern ideas as to what was suitable to its little wants—and it ate mighty little.
They finished and went upstairs to what was known as the “Ladies’ Sitting Room,” a big room, unseparated from the hall, furnished with a mouldering “set” in mahogany and obliterated brocade; a most desolating room, with one naked electric light. But how respectable, situated as it was, directly at the head of the stairs, baldly open to the gaze of each and every one of the guests, passing by on the way to his room! There was a table piled with magazines years and years old; Minnie and the child sat down by this and began looking them over in silence. So Mr. Petersen found them, and wondered at and pitied the precocious sobriety of the tiny girl. He took her on his knee and lifted up her face.
“A beautiful child!” he said again.