The Galt house was tall, brown and conventional, lying safe within the fringe. It was near the middle of the block. Eastward toward Fifth Avenue as the scale of wealth ascended there were several handsome houses. Westward toward Sixth Avenue at the extreme end of the block you might suspect high class board. But it is a long block; one end does not know the other. About the entrance, especially at the front door as Galt admitted us with a latch-key, there was an effect of stinted upkeep.
Inside we were putting off our things, with no sign of a servant, when suddenly a black and white cyclone swept down the hall, imperilling in its passage a number of things and threatening to overwhelm its own object; but instead at the miraculous moment it became rigid, gracefully executed a flying slide on the tiled floor, and came to a perfect stop with Galt in its arms.
“Safe!” I shouted, filled with excitement and admiration.
“Natalie,” said Galt, introducing her.
She shook hands in a free, roguish manner, smiling with me at herself, without really for an instant taking her attention off Galt.
“You’re wet,” she said severely.
“No, I’m not.”
“You’re soaking wet,” she insisted, feeling and pinching him at the same time. “You’ve got to change.”
“I’ve got to do nothing of the kind,” he said. “We want to talk. Let us alone.” To me he said: “Come up to my room,” and made for the stairway.
Natalie, getting ahead of him, barred the way.