"Oh, it is," she agreed; "and he's a very nice gentleman; he'll be glad to help you if he can."
"Well, I think I'll go to see him; if he has been here thirty years, he can hardly fail to remember the Dr. Page I'm talking about." He glanced at the clock. "Do you think he's likely to be in now?"
"I should think the morning would be the best time, sir," she answered; "but you might try—it isn't far. If you'll wait a second, I'll write the address down for you."
"You are too good," said Conrad impressively. His pulses quickened at the chance. Instantly the thought of quitting Sweetbay was forgotten. Again he thanked her, and again she bowed graciously over her pink blouse as he withdrew. When he turned at the doors, she was bowing still.
They swung to behind him, and he wished he had reported himself to her three days ago. What amiability! He had never seen anything to compare with it in a post-office. As he strode towards the vicar's, he was possessed by amazement. The experience had an air of the ideal, as everybody will admit. Probably the mirthful postmistress was the only member of her calling ever known to exhibit a pleasant countenance to the public, excepting— But the Exception merits a paragraph to herself, and as she has nothing to do with the story, you are recommended to skip to the next chapter.
Excepting a little lady who once brightened the ancient post-office of Southampton Row. The "post-office," have I said? Rather should I say she brightened the district with that sunny smile of hers, and the daily flower freshening her neat little frock. To watch her, it seemed she found long hours "in the cage" the very poetry of bread-winning. Dull matrons from Russell Square, and tired clerks from Guilford Street alike felt the encouragement of her cheerfulness, and went on their way refreshed. One may well believe she was the unwitting cause of many kindly actions in West Central London, for a crowd was ever at the counter, and the sourest soul of all on whom she smiled must for a space have viewed the world with friendlier eyes. Often I used to wonder, as I bought a postcard, and waited for the farthing change, whether it was interest in her duties, or the message of the daily flower that kept that light of happiness in the girlish face. When she vanished, Southampton Row was grey. They repainted and replanned it; and built spruce hotels, and pink "mansions," but nothing could make good the loss. It was whispered she had left to be married. All Bloomsbury must hope that he is kind to her!
CHAPTER V
And after that little tribute, which has been owing for more years than it exhilarates me to count—and which has been paid with no expense to anyone who followed my advice—let us overtake Conrad on the doorstep, where he had just learnt that the vicar was at home.
The Rev. Athol Irquetson was a sombre-eyed priest with a beautiful voice. In his zeal, he had studied how to use it—under an eminent actor; in his discretion, he suppressed the fact—for he knew his Sweetbay. He had also a fine faculty for gesture, which his parishioners found "impressive"—and which they would have found "theatrical" had they guessed that for years it had been cultivated daily before a looking-glass. Why invalidate an instrument? To admiring friends he said his gestures "came to him." They did, by this time. He waved Conrad's apologies aside, and motioning towards a seat, sank slowly into a study-chair himself. Conrad ardently appreciated the pose of his hand there, as—a pensive profile supported by his finger-tips—the vicar asked, in a voice to make converts: "And what can I do for you?"