“You weren’t going to shut me out, were you?” she said. She smiled, and Edwin saw that her eyes were of a warm hazel such as sunshine reveals in peaty river water. Before them Edwin found himself blushing.
“No, indeed,” he said. “Do you want Mrs. Meadows? I’ll go and tell her.”
“Mrs. Meadows? This is thirty-seven, isn’t it?”
“Yes . . . thirty-seven.”
“I’ve come to see my friend, Miss Latham. She’s lodging here.”
“I’m so sorry. Of course. I expect she’s in the front room.”
“Thank you.” She spoke very demurely. He stood aside to let her pass and with her a faint fragrance of white rose.
By this time Miss Latham herself had emerged, a blowsy woman who was taking a small part in the Christmas pantomime at the theatre, and had introduced herself to the friends through Mrs. Meadows a few days before.
“Why, Rosie, my dear, isn’t this just sweet of you? Fancy finding you on the step flirting with Doctor . . . Dr. Ingleby! That’s right, isn’t it?”
“Oh, what a shame, Hetty! We weren’t, were we?” Ingenuously she turned her eyes on Edwin again. Were they hazel? Perhaps they were almost amber. A matter of light . . .