“How dreadful—terribly unfortunate,” Mrs. Bushey muttered, then, looking about, caught the count’s eye at the crack: “Good morning, Count Delcati. You’re up early.”
The count responded, the gleaming eye large and unwinking as if made of glass.
Mrs. Bushey’s glance returned to me. The smile called forth by the greeting of the star lodger died away.
“If her concert was such a failure and she’s sick, how is she going to live?”
I hadn’t thought of that. It added a complication to the already complex situation.
“Oh, she must have something,” I said with a vaguely reassuringly air. “She hasn’t been making money but—”
“Do you know anything positive of her financial position?” interrupted Mrs. Bushey.
It was hard to be vague on any subject with Mrs. Bushey, on the subject of finances impossible. She listened to a few soothing sentences then said grimly:
“I see you don’t really know anything about it. Please try and find out. Of course I’m one of the most kind-hearted people in the world, but”—she held her physical culture manuals in the grip of one elbow and extended her hands—“one must live. I can’t be late with my rent whatever my lodgers can be.”
The count’s voice issued unexpectedly through the crack: