“Is that you, Missus Richardson?”
“No,” replied I.
“Mister Richardson?”
“No,” again.
“Who, then?”
“A friend.”
And so the door gave way to the charmed word.
“Friend? why, a lie!” said the voice of a man.
“Perhaps not,” said I, as I stood before them, and made my usual rapid survey.
I had been wrong in my expectation. The fustian jacket had not taken the place of the surtout, and my ladies were in the same splendid attire I had seen them in on the previous day, only the bonnets were not on their heads—adorned these with an exquisite abundance of fine hair, smooth and glossy, and done up in the first style of fashion. Yes, I defy you to have found in Moray Place more personable young women; nor if I had been there on a visit of condolence for the loss of one of their dearest friends, could I have found manners more staid and correct—I might add graceful, if I could lay claim to knowing much of the true and the false of that accomplishment. But all this I observed by one or two rapid glances diverted from my principal investigation, which latter yielded me at first but little: the indispensable bed—the table and chairs—the plate-rack, and some trunks. It was clear that they had resolved on no work that day, and no trace of their machinery was visible. My principal hope lay in an inviting press; and as I made a motion to proceed towards it, I thought I observed something like an indication that my gentleman would make free with the door; so applying my fingers to my mouth, I gave a shrill whistle, the sound of which echoed through the flat, startled my ladies out of their composure, and, what I wanted, reached the ear of my assistant, who, obeying the call, was instantly at the door.