“Floor 3, the Hunts’ flat, Daddy,” said Norah, consulting a note-book. “I suppose there is a lift.”
There was a lift, but it was out of order; a grimy card, tucked into the lattice of the doorway, proclaimed the fact. So they mounted flight after flight of stairs, and finally halted before a doorway bearing Major Hunt’s card. A slatternly maid answered their ring.
“Mrs. Hunt’s out,” she said curtly. “Gorn to see the Mijor.”
“Oh—will she be long?”
“Don’t think so—she’s gen’lly home about half-past four. Will yer wait?”
Norah looked at her father.
“Oh yes, we’ll wait,” he said. They followed the girl into a narrow passage, close and airless, and smelling of Irish stew. Sounds of warfare came from behind a closed door: a child began to cry loudly, and a boy’s voice was heard, angry and tired.
The maid ushered the visitors into a dingy little drawing-room. Norah stopped her as she was departing.
“Could I see the children?”
The girl hesitated.