“There is somebody—two gentlemen—just as I said: one old and the other young.”
“Are you serious, Marion?” said the widow, interlacing her fingers across her breast, while her lips trembled.
“They are reading the card: the old one is holding a pair of gold-rimmed eye-glasses across his nose. Now they are looking through the gate at the house: the young one is saying something, and the other is smiling and taking snuff. The young one has a small head, but his eyes are big, and he has broad shoulders: he looks like an artist, just as I said. The old one stoops a little and is ugly; but I like his face—it’s honest. He doesn’t seem to be very rich, though; his coat is very old-fashioned. Oh, they are going away!”
“Oh, I am so glad!” exclaimed Mrs. Lockhart fervently.
“No, they are coming back—they are coming in: the young one is opening the gate. Here they come: that young fellow is certainly very handsome. There!”
A double knock sounded through the house.
“Say we are not at home—oh, they must not come in! Tell them to call another day. Perhaps they may not have called about the lodgings,” faltered the widow, in agitation.
Marion said nothing; being, to tell the truth, engaged in screwing her own courage to the sticking-point. After a pause of a few moments she marched to the door, with a step so measured and deliberate as to suggest stern desperation rather than easy indifference. Passing into the hall, and closing the door behind her, she threw open the outer door and faced the two intruders.
The elder gentleman stood forward as spokesman. “Good morning to you,” he said, glancing observantly at the young woman’s erect figure. “You have lodgings to let, I believe?”
“Yes.”