It was a misty, gray-gold afternoon. London was empty—for London.
The Green Park was thick and mystic, the white frocks of the little children standing out solidly in the haze; an occasional white perambulator moving along slowly, like a fairy boat.
Marquise Mansions. The cab pulled up. The driver called out ironically to the conductor of a Hammersmith omnibus, “Fancy meeting you!”—that must be another catchword. How she had lost touch of the gay, silly, witty London life! She had been contemptuous of it, imagined that she hated it, that she only longed for it because Edred was there. Was it possible that only yesterday, about this time, she had been watching Jethro’s cart horses, with their elaboration of brass harness and head decking? She had thought then that the country was so large, so utterly satisfying; that towns, with their hotbed air of struggle and scheming, would choke her. Only yesterday! It had all faded into a sad, tender dream. She was very glad to be awake again. Marquise Mansions!
It was a leviathan block of latter-day flats; red brick, white paint already turning smoke-colored, muslin curtains at the windows, little fragile balconies to the upper stories. A maid in smart black-and-white livery came daintily out and flicked a duster over one of the balconies. She looked down into the street and smirked at a man with a milk cart.
The place was like Edred. It was a typical place for him to choose: all swagger show, all glitter, very smart and ostentatious, very thin.
She dismissed her cab, went up the tesselated steps, consulted the names which were displayed on the wall. The hall porter rang the lift bell. The lift came down. She got in, reclined on the thickly-cushioned back, and watched the floors skim by, dip down.
Edred was on the third. She knocked with some trepidation at the extravagantly shaped copper knocker which flaunted itself on a peacock door. A little pert page, all claret cloth and gilt buttons, opened it. She caught her breath at the color and depth of the carpets lying on the stained floor, at great copper bowls and decorative dishes which were disposed on shelves in a room with a half-opened door.
“Is Mr. Crisp in?”
The little page smiled knowingly; it was a very horrible smile, on such a chubby, child face. He didn’t seem at all surprised at the advent of such a visitor—a handsome woman, young and well dressed. It was evident—her blazing, aching heart told her this—that she was only one of a type.
“Mr. Crisp is in, miss. What name?”