“Dreadful! Horrible!” she exclaimed. “Didn’t you die with fright and shame?”
“Oh, no,” I replied. “I was shocked and astonished, but not ashamed. I would have saved Ivan, if I could.”
“You would!” she exclaimed. “Are you a nihilist, or an anarchist?”
“Neither,” I answered her. “Ivan was my friend, and I was sorry for him—a young man in his prime, to be banished from all that made life worth living for. But suppose we come to business about the rooms? I’ve told you why they seemed haunted, but sitting here as long as I have, that feeling has vanished, and I rather think I’d like them, for the sake of old times, if my friend is agreeable,” and I turned to Mrs. Whitney, a frail little body, who had been an amused listener to the conversation, and who left everything to me.
She was quite willing, she said, but what was it about giving up the lease because the house had been contaminated by nihilists? She would not like to get settled and then have to move.
Mrs. Browne was taken by surprise. She had made a good bargain with the landlord. The house was well situated for boarders. Those she had had in the last winter were to return the coming winter. She could not afford to throw up the lease, as half her rent was paid in advance. This she explained, and added: “I’m in a tight place.”
I think it is in my nature to give advice, whether asked for or not, and I said to her: “If you burned sulphur candles two days for one nihilist, burn them eight days for four—Monsieur and Madame Scholaskie, Ivan and Sophie. That, surely, would clear the atmosphere.”
I felt nearly certain that I heard a chuckle from Alex, who was wiping a window, but, as her bad ear was toward me, I might have been mistaken. For a moment Mrs. Browne’s gray eyes shone angrily; then she laughed, and said: “It is so long since those people were here that I think I’ll risk the house without the candles. Will you take the rooms?”
She was coming to business, which was settled at once, although I thought her price rather exorbitant, but Mrs. Whitney paid the bills without a murmur. Indeed, I don’t know that I should have dared protest, under any circumstances. I was somewhat cowed by Mrs. Browne, with her blue blood and the “e” at the end of her name. She was a wiry little woman, with a tongue; and, after we had agreed upon the rooms—to her evident satisfaction and surprise that we had not tried to beat her down—she began very volubly to descant upon the great privileges we enjoyed as her guests—the best the market could produce, the cleanest house and most attentive servants, especially Alex, whose virtues she began again to extol. Incidentally, she called our attention to the fact that Alex never went out but once a week, and not always that.
