"Ah, Miss Thompson,"—that was the name she had given the landlady,—"since we are neighbors we should also be friends." And on he went, voluminously, in his full, upholstered voice.
Somehow Mrs. De Peyster got away from him. But thereafter he spoke to her whenever he could waylay her in the hallway or upon the stairs. And his attentions did not stop with words. Flowers, even edibles, were continuously found against her door, his card among them. The situation somehow recalled to her the queer gentleman in shorts who threw vegetables over Mrs. Nickleby's garden wall. Mrs. De Peyster felt outraged; she fumed; yet she dared not be outspokenly resentful.
She had at first no inkling of the meaning of these attentions. It was Matilda who suggested the dismaying possibility.
"Don't you think, ma'am, he's trying to make love to you?"
"Make love to me!" rising in horror from one of Mrs. Gilbert's veteran "easy"-chairs.
"I'm sure it's that, ma'am," said the troubled Matilda.
"Matilda! Of all the effrontery!"
"Indeed, it is an insult to you, ma'am. But that may not be the worst of it. For if he really falls in love with you, he may try to follow you when you get ready to leave."
"Matilda!" gasped Mrs. De Peyster.