“You never can tell. These little quiet married women—”
I frowned. The changed expression stopped her and then she laughed.
“Don’t be offended. You must never mind what I say. I’m not half so interesting if I stop and think.”
I looked down at her and was weak enough to smile. Her face was so unlike her words, so serenely fine, almost noble.
“That’s right, smile,” she cried gaily. “You’ll get used to me when you know me better. And you’re going to do that, Mrs. Drake, for I warn you now, we’ll soon be friends.”
Before I could answer she had turned and run down the stairs to the street.
I let myself into the sitting-room and took off my things. I have neat old-maidish ways, cultivated by years of small quarters. Before I can sit with an easy conscience I have to put away wraps, take off shoes, pull down blinds and light lamps. When I had done this I sat before the register and thought of Miss Harris.
There was something very unusual about her—something more than her looks. She has a challenging quality; maybe it’s magnetism, but whatever it is that’s what makes people notice her and speak of her. Nevertheless, she was not de notre monde—I apologize for the phrase which has always seemed to me the summit of snobbery, but I can’t think of a better one. It was not that she was common—that didn’t fit her at all—unsensitive would be a fairer word. I felt that very strongly, and I felt that it might be a concomitant of a sort of crude power. She didn’t notice my reluctance at all, or I had a fancy that she might have noticed it and didn’t care.
I was sitting thus when Mrs. Bushey came bounding ebulliently in. Mrs. Bushey bounds in quite often, after physical culture, or when the evenings in the other house pall. She wore a red dress under a long fur-lined coat and stopped in pained amaze when she saw me crouched over the register.
“Cold!” she cried aghast, “don’t tell me you haven’t enough heat?”