“I’ve read your name on your door every time I’ve passed,” she said, “and I’ve hoped you’d some day open the door and find me standing there and ask me to come in.”
I could see Betty’s head nodding at me, I could hear her grim “I told you so.”
I made polite murmurs and pressed closer to the banister.
“But the door was never opened,” said Miss Harris, bending to look into my face with an almost tender reproach. I felt I was visibly shrinking, and that the upward gaze I fastened on her was one of pleading. Unless she let go my hand and ceased to be so oppressively gracious I would diminish to a heap upon the floor.
“Never mind,” she went on, “now I know you I’ll not stand outside any more.”
I jerked my hand away and made a flank movement for the stairs. Five minutes more and she would be coming up and taking supper with me. She did not appear to notice my desire for flight, but continued talking to me as I ascended.
“We’re the only two women in the upper part of this house. Do I chaperon you, or do you chaperon me?”
I spoke over the banisters and my tone was cold.
“Being a married woman, I suppose I’m the natural chaperon.”
The coldness glanced off her imperturbable good humor: