Was it, though? Exactly like a bank—this queer, dark little shop, with barred windows—and the man behind the counter was exactly like the cashier her father used to bring home to dinner. She handed the ticket across the counter, with the money; but the man pushed the money back to her.
“Wait a moment!” said he, with a curious glance at her.[Pg 436]
Then he disappeared, and Miss Cigale stood there, trying desperately hard not to feel like a criminal, an outlaw, a highly suspicious character. If she had been a man she would certainly have whistled; but, as it was, she stared about her with the most casual, offhand air.
Oh, but it was pitiful! To think that there were people so hard pressed that they must bring here a cotton quilt, or a dingy umbrella, or, worst of all, a child’s pair of rubber boots. Hanging on a line from the ceiling were guitars and banjos and mandolins and ukeleles—music sold into bondage.
“Is this your own ticket, madam?” asked a voice, and, turning, she saw a severe little elderly man looking at her through his spectacles. The question dismayed her. He appeared so very much displeased; perhaps it was a wrong sort of ticket, which Geordie shouldn’t have had.
“Yes. Oh, yes!” she answered, with a very poor attempt at sprightliness. “It’s mine.”
“You didn’t buy it—or find it?” he asked.
“Oh, no!” Miss Cigale replied, quite certain now that there was something wrong. “It’s my own!”
The elderly man looked at her steadily for a moment.
“Wait a minute, please!” he said. “Be seated, madam!”