"See her?"
"Yes, and explain the situation. I can't. She won't let me. She goes mad when I try. She keeps on worrying at it from morning to night. When I don't go, she writes. And it knocks me all to pieces."
"If she's that sort, what good do you suppose I'll do by seeing her?"
"Oh, she'll listen to reason from any one but me. And there are things you can say to her that I can't. I say, will you?"
"I will if you like. But I don't suppose it will do one atom of good. It never does, you know. Where does the woman live?"
He took down the address on the visiting-card that Gorst gave him.
Between six and seven that evening he presented himself at one of many tiny, two-storied, red brick and stucco houses that stood in a long flat street, each with a narrow mat of grass laid before its bay-window. It was the new quarter of the respectable milliners and clerks; and Majendie gathered that the prodigal had taken some pains to lodge his Maggie with decent people. He reasoned farther that such an arrangement could only be possible, given the complete rupture of their relations.
A clean, kindly woman opened the door. She admitted with some show of hesitation that Miss Forrest was at home, and led him to a sitting-room on the upper floor. As he followed her he heard a door open; a dress rustled on the landing, and another door opened and shut again.
Maggie was not in the room as Majendie entered. From signs of recent occupation he gathered that she had risen up and fled at his approach.
The woman went into the adjoining room and returned, politely embarrassed. "Miss Forrest is very sorry, sir, but she can't see anybody."