“Ah, you have no fire,” she said, in her somewhat grating voice; “if you will let me I will light it,” and without more ado she had procured coals and wood for herself, and was down on her knees before the empty grate.
Ethel turned away with a sick, helpless feeling over Doris’ selfishness, and after administering a few drops of brandy, chafed the sick man’s hands and feet. When Basil felt better he glanced up curiously at the strange, dried-up-looking female who had just succeeded in persuading a cheerful blaze to brighten the room. She looked back into his face frankly.
“You needn’t mind me,” she informed him; “I’m only the music-teacher from the opposite flat.”
“You seem to be rather a kind sort of music-teacher,” he said, with his winsome smile, “even if you do only come from the opposite flat.”
The hard face relaxed a very little, and she shrugged her shoulders.
“Oh, well, it isn’t easy to be kind,” she answered, “when you don’t stand for much else in the universe but a letter of the alphabet.” She turned back to her grate and commenced sweeping up the ashes.
Basil roused himself a little further and looked interested.
“What letter do you stand for?”
“Just G.” She gave a low, harsh laugh. “G is the letter that distinguishes my flat from the others, and it is all I stand for to God or man.”
“I see.” His white, pain wrung face looked extraordinarily kind. “Well, G, I’m very deeply grateful to you for coming across to light my fire; and I’m glad there happened to be a G in the universe this afternoon.”