"No," he lied.
She stopped at a gateway formed by a gap in a hedge of spicy scented boxwood that paralleled the sidewalk.
"Here we are," she said, turning in.
He saw a rose-shaded light in the window of a small house set far back from the street.
"Betty is waiting for me," she explained. "I want you to meet her."
On each side of the pathway leading back to the house was a rose garden with the bushes set at precise intervals. The rose garden ended half way back from the sidewalk. Before the house, for the entire width of the lot and a dozen paces deep, was closely cropped grass. Flat stones, set into the lawn like the footprints of an elephant, provided an artistic path to the door, which was massive in size and of unfinished stained oak. The flanges of the hinges were of beaten iron held in place by studded bolts. A quaint knocker was above the handle to the latch.
"You'll pardon me for a moment?" Consuello asked, opening the door and stepping inside, returning a moment later to hold it open for him to enter.
The room was exceptionally large, with rafters across the ceiling. At one end was a huge fireplace and rugs were scattered over a smooth but unpolished floor. Betty rose from an easy chair as he entered. She had been reading. John saw that she was slender, dark-eyed, rather pretty.
"Betty, this is Mr. Gallant," said Consuello by way of an introduction.