“Ah, Mrs. Willers,” he said, leaning forward to pick up his pen and speaking with the crisp clearness of utterance certain people employ when irritated, “what is it that you want to see me about?”
“Nothing,” said Mrs. Willers abruptly and with battle in her tone; “why should I?”
“I have not the least idea,” he answered, looking at his pen, and then, dipping it in the ink, “unless perhaps you want a few hints for your forthcoming article, ‘The Kind of Shoestrings Worn by the Crowned Heads of Europe.’”
Essex was out of temper himself. When Mrs. Willers interrupted him he had been thinking over the situation with Mariposa, and it had seemed to him very cheerless. His remark was well calculated to enrage the leading spirit of the woman’s page, who was as proud of her weekly contributions as though they had been inspired by the genius of George Eliot.
“Well,” she said, and her rouge became quite unnecessary in the flood of natural color that rose to her face, “if I was going to tackle that subject I think you’d be about the best person to come to for information. For if you ever have had anything to do with crowned heads it’s been as their bootblack.”
Essex was startled by the stinging malice revealed in this remark. He swung round on his swivel chair and sat facing his antagonist, making no attempt to rise, although she entered the room. As he saw her face in the light of the window he realized that, for the first time, he saw the woman stirred out of her carefully acquired professional calm.
As she entered she pushed the door to behind her, and, taking the chair beside the desk, sat down.
“Mr. Essex,” she said, “I want a word with you.”
“Any number,” he answered with ironical politeness. “Do you wish the history of my connection with the crowned heads as court bootblack?”
“No,” she said. “I want to know what business you’ve got to go to Mrs. Garcia’s boarding-house and frighten one of the ladies living there?”