Himself was out; but I was not alone. Mrs. Slaney sat upon my sofa, and Mrs. Slaney smoked a cigarette, and once again Mrs. Slaney poured into my dulled ears the story of Ireland’s martyrdom.
“It’s going to be a cold night,” she said, in the middle of a fiery sentence.
“Cold?” My voice was like the night. “I must take my bulbs in from the window; I don’t want them frost nipped now.” I rose and went to the window and opened it with difficulty, for the sash had never been mended.
“I really mustn’t stay long,” said Mrs. Slaney, staying where she was. “I have letters to write. Are those tulips? They have come on.”
“Yes.” I carefully placed the last pot on the floor, shut the window carefully, and crawled up from my lowly position on the floor. There was silence for a moment after that. Mrs. Slaney smoked thoughtfully, and I returned to my seat.
Suddenly the silence was broken by a shrill whistle. It made us start.
“I wonder if Mr. Fitzgerald is in?” said Mrs. Slaney suddenly.
“I don’t know,” I said, staring from the lighted room into the dark outside.
“You hear him come and go, I suppose?”
“I seldom hear people come and go. I don’t listen. After all, it doesn’t interest me.”