“As I’ve had the trouble of opening the door to you, you can walk up. It’s the top floor. But you’d no business to press my bell.”
“I’m sorry,” faltered Jean.
“We’re not allowed to put our names outside the door. And it’s a shame, that it is! I’m always coming up from my basement just to open the door to some other lady’s visitors.”
The woman turned round, leaving the front door open. Jean shut it, and began slowly walking up the narrow dark staircase. The house looked more than dirty; it looked degraded.
On and on she went, past frowsy-looking landings, till she reached the top floor. There—a change indeed! A piece of linoleum, scrupulously clean, was on the landing, and, as she moved cautiously forward and knocked on the door opposite the top of the staircase, a voice which had once been very familiar, called out: “Come in!”
She turned the handle, and saw before her a plainly furnished, but pleasant little sitting room, and a girl who she knew was Rachel North, rose from a low chair by the fire, and came forward.
“Why, Jean, I didn’t expect you for another hour! I looked out the trains from Grendon. You must have come by a slow one.”
“I did,” she answered rather breathlessly. “I was in such a hurry to get away.”
“I know—to get busy,” said the other nodding her head.
She was a reserved girl, and she did not kiss Jean Bower. Instead, she took both her visitor’s hands, held them firmly, and gazed into her face.