We must have looked a funny lot, as the servant opened the door. She—it was a parlour-maid—did start a little, but I didn't give her time to speak, though I daresay she thought we were beggars, thanks to those silly children.
'Mrs. Wylie is staying here,' I said. I thought it best to speak decidedly. 'Is she at home?'
I suppose my way of speaking made her see we were not beggars, and perhaps she caught sight of the four-wheeler, looming faintly through the fog, for she answered quite civilly.
'She is not exactly staying here. She is in rooms a little way from here, but she comes round most afternoons. I thought it was her when you rang, but I don't think she'll be coming now—not in this fog.'
My heart had gone down like lead at the first words—'she is not,' but as the servant went on I got more hopeful again.
'Can you—' I began—I was going to have asked for Mrs. Wylie's address, but just then Margaret coughed; the worst cough I had heard yet from her. 'Why couldn't you have stayed in the cab?' I said sharply, and perhaps it was a good thing, to show that we had a cab waiting for us. 'Please,' I went on, 'let this little girl come inside for a minute. The fog makes her cough so.'
The parlour-maid stepped back, opening the door a little wider, but there was something doubtful in her manner, as if she was not quite sure if she was not running a risk in letting us in. I pushed Margaret forward, and not Margaret only! She was holding fast to her precious bundle, and Peterkin was holding fast to his side of it, so they tumbled in together in a way that was enough to make the servant stare, and I stayed half on the steps, half inside, but from where I was I could see into the hall quite well. It looked so nice and comfortable, compared with the horribleness outside. It was a square sort of hall. The house was not a big one, not nearly as big as ours at home, but lots bigger than the Rock Terrace ones, of course.
'Can you give me Mrs. Wylie's address?' I said. 'I think the best thing we can do is to—' but I was interrupted again.
A girl—a grown-up girl, a lady, I mean—came forward from the inner part of the hall.
'Browner,' she said, 'do shut the door. You are letting the fog get all over the house, and it is bitterly cold.'