“Did you know Mrs. Capel?”
“Who?”
“Margaret Capel. You knew she lived here, didn’t you? That it was here it all happened?”
“What happened?”
“Then you don’t know?” He got up from his chair in a fidgetty sort of way and went over to the other window. “I hoped you knew her, that she had been a friend of yours. I hoped so ever since I had your sister’s letter. Carbies! It seemed so strange to be coming here again. I can’t believe it is ten years ago; it is all so vivid!” He came back and sat down again. “I ought not to talk about her, but the whole room and house are so full of memories. She used to sit, just as you are sitting now, for hours at a time, dreaming. Sometimes she would not speak to me at all. I had to go away; I could see I was intruding.”
The cynical words on my lips remained unuttered. He was tall, and if his clothes had fitted him he might have presented a better figure. I hate a morning coat in tweed material. The adjective “uncouth” stuck. I saw it was a clever head under the thick mane of black hair, and wondered at his tactlessness and provincial garrulity. I nevertheless found myself not entirely uninterested in him.
“Do you mind my talking about her? Incandescent! I think that word describes her best. She burned from the inside, was strung on wires, and they were all alight. She was always sitting just where you are now, or upstairs at the piano. She was a wonderful pianist. Have you been upstairs, into the room she turned into a music room?”
“As I told you, I have only been here an hour. This is the only room I have seen.”
My tone must have struck him as wanting in cordiality, or interest.
“You didn’t want me to come up tonight?” He looked through his pocketbook for Ella’s letter, found it, and began to read, half aloud. How well I knew what Ella would have said to him.