When she poked the fire a belt held down the back of the blouse. The kimono jacket, the safety pin and the golden corset string were gone, if not forever, at least till their owner was safely landed in her own little flat with her own little husband.
Our gossiping stopped when we heard Lizzie’s step on the stairs. She entered without knocking, sweeping in and slamming the door. A brusk nod was all Miss Bliss got and my greeting was a curt “Hello, Evie.” She threw herself into a rocker, and extending her feet beyond the hem of her skirt, sunk down in the chair and looked at her boots. In her hand she held a bunch of unopened letters.
I was keyed up for something unusual but I hadn’t seen her in this state since her illness. We waited for her to speak, then as she showed no inclination to do so I remarked, with labored lightness:
“Well, Lizzie, how was it?”
“Beastly,” she answered, without looking up.
“Was your pupil a nice girl?”
“No.”
“Was she disagreeable?”
“I don’t know, but I detested her. A little, simpering, affected idiot. Sing—that fool!”
She lifted her head and looked round the room with a wild and roving eye. Her glance, raised high, avoided us as if the sight of her fellow humans was disagreeable. Miss Bliss cleared her throat and stirred cautiously on the blanket. She knew where Lizzie had been and was exceedingly anxious to hear her adventures in the halls of wealth, but didn’t dare to ask.