"Tired as a dog."
"And no wonder, working such long hours!"
No answer from the lodger.
"You are later than usual this evening, aren't you?"
"Keep me on purpose," muttered Miss McGee angrily (or something like that), climbing the tall stairs.
She was a dark young woman, darkly dressed and darkly scowling, it had seemed, at the mere sight of Charles. As he knew from a rare letter on the hall table, her official name was Mary Maude McGee, but to him she was always and simply Two-Book McGee, on account of her apparent habit of reading two novels a night, every night in the year. She had them under her arm now, with the labels of the circulating library showing.
Charles also had a book under his arm, "Marna": here was a topic!
"Do you," he inquired, continuing the social chat, "find many good novels these days?"
"No, I don't!" said she, so sharply that you would have supposed he was to blame for it. Imagine!
"You must really look over my stock some day, Miss McGee. I'm sure I have something you could read."