Her abode was scarcely a flat, in the accepted sense of the word, but rather a collection of rooms on the first floor of a fine old Georgian mansion in Caroline Street. A retired butler and his wife, who had been a cook, owned the house, and attended to the various people who dwelt therein. Mrs. Pelham Odin was thus spared the trouble of domestic details, for which--as she said herself--she had no head, and was very comfortably placed at a moderate charge. With the obstinacy of old age, she called her abode "my flat," and no argument could persuade her that the name was wrongly applied.
Haskins entered the large square room with a painted ceiling which was Mrs. Pelham Odin's drawing-room. Adjoining was the dining-room, equally spacious, while the two bedrooms occupied by the old lady and her adopted daughter were across the landing. The room looked pretty and picturesque, as Mrs. Pelham Odin had great taste, and did not cram her apartments with furniture, or indulge in a multiplicity of patterns on carpet or walls, or on the upholstery of the chairs. A great quantity of flowers adorned the room, deftly arranged by Charity, and it was lighted with rose-shaded lamps on tall wrought-iron pedestals. On entering the door from the staircase three narrow windows could be seen opposite, opening on to a small balcony, but, as the night was a trifle cold, these were closed, and the yellow curtains were drawn. The room looked comfortable, and Mrs. Pelham Odin was the most comfortable person in it. She fitted the apartment as a hermit-crab fits its shell.
The actress, with a great sense of the fitness of things, had grown old gracefully--that is, she had not resorted to dye and paint to improve her waning looks. She was a small woman, and very stout, but her dignity was tremendous. In a black velvet gown trimmed with lace, that might, or might not have been priceless, with her silvery hair worn in the regal style of Marie Antoinette, with a somewhat massive set of features irradiated by a gracious smile, Mrs. Pelham Odin received her guest as a queen might have done. From a long experience in playing aristocratic old dames in comedy, and imperious heroines in tragedy, dignity had become a second nature to the clever old actress. It is said that Gibbon was so long in writing "The Decline and Fall" that he ended in believing himself to be the Roman Empire. In a like manner Mrs. Pelham Odin believed herself to be the Marchioness in Caste, or Helen Macgregor, or Volumnia--perhaps a mixture of the three. She certainly was tremendously dignified, and no stage manager ever dare to take a liberty with her. She still appeared on the boards when she found a part worthy of her grandiose style.
"I am glad to see you, Mr. Haskins," said Mrs. Pelham Odin, apparently suppressing an inclination to use the royal "we," and proffered her hand to be shaken or kissed, as the visitor preferred.
Gerald, having something to gain from a little timely flattery, kissed the jeweled fingers. He knew that this old-world attention appealed to Mrs. Pelham Odin as nothing else did. "You are looking--like yourself," he said politely, "I can pay you no higher compliment."
Mrs. Pelham Odin laughed her celebrated silvery laugh, which critics always mentioned, and took the stage--that is, she walked the length of the drawing-room. "Ever a courtier, Mr. Haskins. Where did you--living in this present generation of hurry--learn such Versailles manners?"
"From the queen of the English stage, madam."
"From me?" Mrs. Pelham Odin fell into her famous startled fawn attitude--also much noticed by critics. "Oh no, no; I am but a humble survivor of the past."
"And you have survived to show us what grace and dignity once existed."
The old actress fluttered her fan with a gracious smile, and bowed her head to the compliment. "Neither grace nor dignity are necessary in this age of motor cars," she said, sighing. "However, we must take things as they are and be cheerful. You don't ask after Charity?"