And something in her tone, though she was too kindly to indulge in “snubs,” made the young man conscious that the ladies were of a different class to most of the applicants for houses at the office in Enneslie Street.
They soon found themselves there again; Mr Otterson receiving them with urbanity, which increased when he found Mrs Derwent a prospective tenant, likely to do more than “nibble.”
“I should have preferred a house on the other side,” she said, “nearer Alderwood and Fotherley. Fotherley was my own old home.”
“Indeed,” said the agent, with secret curiosity. “I fear there is nothing thereabouts—really nothing. The new building has all been in the town, or quite close to it, with the exception of Pinnerton Green.”
“Ah well, then there is no use in thinking of another neighbourhood,” said Mrs Derwent.
And she went on to discuss the house that there was use in thinking of, after a very sensible and practical fashion, which raised Mr Otterson’s opinion of her greatly.
There would be a good deal to do to it; of that there was no doubt. And repairs, and alterations, and embellishments are not done for nothing. Mr Otterson looked grave.
“The first thing to be done,” he said, “is to get at an approximate idea of the cost.”
“You cannot make even a guess at it?” said Mrs Derwent, glancing at the clock.
For it had been already explained to her that all but the most absolutely necessary work must be at her own expense.