I edged in an exclamation, a single formless syllable.
“Of course, I knew you would. Then on the floor below you are two young Westerners in the back room, Mr. Hazard, who’s an artist, and Mr. Weatherby, who’s something on the press. The most delightful fellows, never a day late with their rent. And in the front room is Miss Bliss, a model—artist not cloak. She isn’t always on time with her money, but I’m very lenient with her.”
I tried to insert a sentence, but it was nipped at the second word.
“Yes, exactly. You see just how it is. On the floor above you, in the back, is Mr. Hamilton, such a nice man and so unfortunate. Lost every cent he had in Wall Street and is beginning all over again. Fine, isn’t it? Yes, I feel it and don’t say anything when he’s behind with his rent. How could I?” Though I hadn’t said a word she looked at me reprovingly as if I had suggested sending the delinquent Mr. Hamilton to jail. “That’s not my way. I know it’s foolish of me. You needn’t tell me so, but that’s how I’m made.”
I began to feel that I ought to offer my next month’s rent at once. I have a bad memory and might be a day or two late.
“The room in front, over your parlor, is vacant. Terrible, isn’t it? I tried to make Mr. Hamilton take the whole floor through. Even if he isn’t good pay—”
I broke in, determined to hear no more of Mr. Hamilton’s financial deficiencies.
“Who’s on the top floor?”
There was a slight abatement of Mrs. Bushey’s buoyancy. She looked at me with an eye that expressed both curiosity and question.
“Miss Harris lives there,” she answered. “Have you seen her?”