Ellen turned. “Who is it?”
The man grimaced. “How should I know? He says he knows you.”
A shadow of irritation crossed Ellen’s smooth brow. “If he wants to see me, tell him to send in his name.” And then to Lily as the porter withdrew, “You see what fame is. The porter doesn’t even know my name. He calls me Madame l’artiste ... Madame indeed! He hasn’t even bothered to read the bills.”
The fellow returned again, this time opening the door without the courtesy of a knock.
“His name, Madame, is ’arrisong.”
Ellen pursed her lips thoughtfully and struck a match on the sole of her slipper, holding the flame to the cigarette in her strong slim fingers.
“Harrison?... Harrison?” she repeated, holding the cigarette between her lips and the lighted match poised. “I don’t know any Harrison.... Tell him to come in.”
The stranger must have been waiting just outside the door, for at the word he stepped timidly inside. He was dressed in black and wore a derby hat set well on the back of his head. Over one arm hung an umbrella. He was rather sallow and macabre despite his plumpness. There was the faint air of an undertaker about him. He might have been any age.
As he advanced he smiled and, observing Lily, his countenance assumed an expression of surprise. Ellen gave no sign of recognition. It was Lily who stirred suddenly and stood up, her face glowing with a genuine spontaneous pleasure.
“Willie Harrison!” she cried. “Where have you come from?”