The door behind the neat white pillars opened, and a little red-nosed woman, in a cap she had evidently put on without a proper glass, appeared. She surveyed the car and its occupant with disfavour over her also very oblique spectacles.
The lady waved a pink paper to her, a house-agent’s order to view. “Is this Black Strands?” she shouted.
The little woman advanced slowly with her eyes fixed malevolently on the pink paper. She seemed to be stalking it.
“This is Black Strands?” repeated the tall lady. “I should be so sorry if I disturbed you—if it isn’t; ringing the bell like that—and all. You can’t think——”
“This is Black Strand,” said the little old woman with a note of deep reproach, and suddenly ceased to look over her glasses and looked through them. She looked no kindlier through them, and her eye seemed much larger. She was now regarding the lady in the car, though with a sustained alertness towards the pink paper. “I suppose,” she said, “you’ve come to see over the place?”
“If it doesn’t disturb anyone; if it is quite convenient——”
“Mr. Brumley is hout,” said the little old woman. “And if you got an order to view, you got an order to view.”
“If you think I might.”
The lady stood up in the car, a tall and graceful figure of doubt and desire and glossy black fur. “I’m sure it looks a very charming house.”
“It’s clean,” said the little old woman, “from top to toe. Look as you may.”