“Did they say anything very awful?”
He shrugged.
“They spoke of her beauty—one said she had a good mezzo voice. But they were not kind to her, to Mr. Berwick, very.”
I said nothing, sunk in gloom.
The count picked up his fur-lined coat from the stair rail, and shook himself into it.
“I should wait to go to her when she comes in, but this meeserable dinner, where I sit beside young girls who know nothing and married ladies who know too much—no mystery, no allure. But I must go—perhaps you?—” He looked at me tentatively over his fur collar.
“I’ll go up as soon as she comes in,” I answered. “If there’s anything I can do for her be assured I’ll do it.”
“You are a sweet lady,” said the count and departed.
After that I sat with the door open a crack waiting and listening. The hours ticked by. I heard Mr. Hamilton’s step on the street stairs, a knock at the Westerner’s door, and as it opened to him, a joyous clamor of greeting in which Miss Bliss’ little treble piped shrilly. Hazard was painting her and she spent most of her evenings in there with them. It was a good thing, they were decent fellows and their room was properly heated.
At intervals the sounds of their mirth came from below. The rest of the house was dumb. At eleven I could stand it no more and went up. If she wasn’t there I could light up the place for her—she rarely locked her door—and have it bright and warm.