I hadn’t.
“Perhaps you’ve heard her?”
I had heard a rustle on the stairs, was that Miss Harris?
“Yes. She’s the only woman above you.”
“Does she leave a trail of perfume?”
I was going to add that it didn’t mix well with the gas leakage, the cigars and last year’s cooking but refrained for fear of Mrs. Bushey’s feelings.
“Yes, that’s Miss Harris. She’s a singer—professional. But you won’t hear her much, there’s a floor in between. That is, unless you leave the register open.”
I said I’d shut the register.
“I don’t take singers as a rule,” Mrs. Bushey went on, “but Mr. Hamilton being away all day and the top floor being hard to rent, I made an exception. One must live, mustn’t one?”
I could agree to that.