CHAPTER XIV
She had renewed opportunity for remarking upon the generous humility the next morning when he left the house with the intention of paying his visit to Bank Street.
“He’s actually going,” she said. “Well, I must say again it’s just like him. There are very few men in his position who would think it worth while, but he treats everybody with just as much consideration as if—as if he was nobody.”
The house on Bank Street was just what he had expected to find it—small, unornamental, painted white, and modestly putting forth a few vines as if with a desire to clothe itself, which had not been encouraged by Nature. The vines had not flourished and they, as well as the few flowers in the yard, were dropping their scant foliage, which turned brown and rustled in the autumn wind.
Before ringing the bell, Baird stood for a few moments upon the threshold. As he looked up and down the street, he was pale and felt chilly, so chilly that he buttoned his light overcoat over his breast and his hands even shook slightly as he did it. Then he turned and rang the bell.
It was answered by a little woman with a girlish figure and gray hair. For a moment John Baird paused before speaking to her, as he had paused before ringing the bell, and in the pause, during which he found himself looking into her soft, childishly blue eyes, he felt even chillier than at first.
“Mrs. Latimer. I think,” he said, baring his head.
“Yes,” she answered, “and you are Mr. Baird and have come to see Lucien, I’m sure.”
She gave him her small hand with a smile.
“I am very glad to see you,” she said, “and Lucien will be glad, too. Come in, please.”