He was imperturbable.
“My dear lady, you can do it perfectly well. I have done it myself a dozen times. All it needs is a little generalship. You just arrange things beforehand—with squads of packers and cleaners to follow each other. You could clear out Windsor Castle in a day, that way. Of course I divide the expense with you. Come, what name shall I write?”
Mrs. Derwall hardly heard him through. She collapsed upon a soapbox, and she laughed until her visitor began to scratch his head.
“You ridiculous man!” she gasped, wiping her eyes. “I declare, you deserve the house! A man who knows what he wants to that degree! Who in the world are you, that you suavely propose to me to move out in a day? It’s like carrying off the roof from over my head! Go on! You shall have it in spite of everything. I don’t know what my husband will do to me, but it’s not often given one to be sublime. Louis N. Derwall is the name. L-o-u——”
And off she went again. By the time she came back the cheque was ready for her. She took it with a certain eagerness, for she was not without her curiosities. But after one glance she suddenly sobered. She eyed the paper some time without saying a word. Finally, however, she looked up at the signatory, who stood quizzically watching her.
“Professor Richard Murch?” she asked.
“The same!” responded that personage, with an elaborate bow.
“The Professor Richard Murch who lectures to ladies about Browning and the Higher Life?”
“The very one. And if I don’t hurry I shall be late for the lecture you refused to go to. Will you come now?”
She did not answer at first. She looked him slowly up and down for as much as a minute. Then she rose, leisurely crossed the cellar to the furnace, opened the door, and threw in the cheque. After which she looked back over her shoulder.