“Shall I go, Pem?” she asked. “Or—”
Pem looked at her helplessly. As the flat was arranged, the front door could not be opened without affording a plain view of the sitting room.
“I’ll let it ring,” said Nickie, with a fine effect of carelessness. “No one we want to see.”
But that was not Pem’s way. She came of an austere and stiff-necked family, living secluded on an exhausted little Vermont farm. They had nothing much but pride to keep them warm in winter, to feed and clothe them. Pride was the only heritage that came down to Pem, and pride would not allow her to refuse admission to Mr. Blanchard, no matter what it cost her. As for the possible cost to Arthur Caswell and to Nickie, that didn’t occur to her just then.
She opened the door herself.
“I’m afraid I’m a little late,” said a courteous, apologetic voice. “Please—”
Then, as he followed Pem inside, he caught sight of the others, and made a general bow.
“This is Mr. Blanchard, Nickie,” said Pem.
He looked altogether what Pem had called him—a gentleman through and through. He was a rather slight man in the middle forties, with a sensitive, harassed face, hair a little gray on the temples, and fine, dark eyes. He hadn’t in the least a furtive or shamefaced air. Indeed, there was a quiet sort of straightforwardness about him that favorably impressed Nickie, in spite of her prejudice against the man.
“I’ve heard a great deal about you from Miss Pembroke,” he said.