CHAPTER VII
THE OTHER WOMAN
As we were speaking, Frances came to my room and I advanced a chair for her.
"Thanks," she said, "I am not at all tired, Mr. Cole."
"Yet I beg that you will sit down for a moment," I asked her. "I shall take the piano-stool and you ladies will give me the delightful feeling of receiving a pleasant visit. I shall do my best to entertain two callers charitable enough to penetrate a sere and yellow bachelor's quarters. I shall proceed to make some tea."
"Gracious, Dave!" exclaimed Frieda hungrily, "you live in the lap of luxury."
"At least your presence here gives me the illusion of it," I answered, pulling out my alcohol lamp and other utensils.
There is little excuse for poor tea, unless it be considered as a vulgar flavoring intended to lend a different taste to the water taken from the faucet. A pound of the best lasts me for the greater part of a year, for I take it seldom, and a dollar more than the price of green and fibrous rubbish permits me to offer my friends and delight myself with a cup such as brings joy and an eagerness for a second filling.
"Of course, I was a little afraid at first," confessed Frances, as I measured out a spoonful for each of us and one for the greedy pot. "Mr. McGrath was exceedingly civil, however, and briefly explained that for the time being I must consider myself as one of his materials, like a tube of paint or his easel."
"That's just like Gordon," I interjected.