“My dear,” said Mrs. Bushey, with a reproving look, “can you read by the gas?”
Conquered by her irrefutable argument, I surrendered the lamp. She was again grateful.
“It’s so agreeable, dealing with the right sort of people,” she said, fastening the last button of her coat. “All the others in the house are so selfish—wouldn’t give up anything. But one doesn’t have to ask you. You offer it at once.”
The count arrived yesterday afternoon, and we are now fast friends. Our meeting fell out thus:— I was reading and heard a sound of footsteps on the stairs, footsteps going up and down, prowling restless footsteps to which I paid no attention, as they go on most of the time. Presently there was a knock at my door and that, too, was a common happening, as most things and people destined for our house find refuge at my portal—intending lodgers for Mrs. Bushey, the seedy man who has a bill for Mr. Hamilton, the laundress with Mr. Hazard’s wash, the artist who is searching for Miss Bliss and has forgotten the address, the telegraph boy with everybody’s telegrams, the postman with the special deliveries, and Miss Harris’ purchases at the department stores.
I called, “Come in,” and the door opened, displaying a thin, brown, dapper young man in a fur-lined overcoat and a silk hat worn back from his forehead. He had a smooth dark skin, a dash of hair on his upper lip, and eyes so black in the pupil and white in the eyeball that they looked as if made of enamel.
At the sight of a lady the young man took off his hat and made a deep bow. When he rose from this obeisance he was smiling pleasantly.
“I am Count Delcati,” he said.
“How do you do?” I responded, rising.
“Very well,” said the count in careful English with an accent. “I come to live here.”
“It’s a very nice place,” I answered.