“Well,” she grumbled, “I don’t suppose I shall say ‘no,’ though ’tain’t, by rights, your hevening hout. But there! Yes, Bet, you can go.”
It was nine o’clock, and Sir Harold Anstey had just finished dinner. He had had an excellent meal and was enjoying a good cigar. But he was in a very bad temper—a rare state for him to be in—but a lady had been going to dine with Sir Harold to-night, and at the very last moment she had “chucked” him. He felt furious; also, what he was not wont to feel: jealous.
The telephone bell rang in the pantry and Sir Harold leapt up from his chair.
“A lady, Sir Harold, on the ’phone. She asked if you were alone. She wouldn’t give her name. She said she’d like to come along and see you for a little while, if you were alone, and not too busy.”
“Say I shall be delighted to see her. And Gunn! I’ll open the front door myself.”
Dear little woman! Her excuse that she had had to go and see a sick friend had evidently been a true one.
But even to his impatient heart, the sharp electric ring came surprisingly soon.
He hurried into his hall. But when he opened the door, instead of the beautiful woman he expected to see, a slight, shabbily dressed girl stood before him.
“This is number eight,” he said shortly. “You have made a mistake in the floor.”
“No, I haven’t, Sir Harold. I’m Jean Bower. I telephoned and asked if you were alone.”