"Won't you let me ask if Mr. Calender is there, before you get out, then? I don't like to be dismissed," he laughed; "and, you know, you shouldn't go wandering round all alone."
The cab drew up. Kirkwood put a hand on the door and awaited her will.
"It—it would be very kind ... I hate to impose upon you."
He turned the knob and got out. "If you'll wait one moment," he said superfluously, as he closed the door.
Pausing only to verify the number, he sprang up the steps and found the bell-button.
It was a modest little residence, in nothing more remarkable than its neighbors, unless it was for a certain air of extra grooming: the area railing was sleek with fresh black paint; the doorstep looked the better for vigorous stoning; the door itself was immaculate, its brasses shining lustrous against red-lacquered woodwork. A soft glow filled the fanlight. Overhead the drawing-room windows shone with a cozy, warm radiance.
The door opened, framing the figure of a maid sketched broadly in masses of somber black and dead white.
"Can you tell me, is Mr. Calendar here?"
The servant's eyes left his face, looked past him at the waiting cab, and returned.
"I'm not sure, sir. If you will please step in."