“It was most thoughtful of you, Miss Dixon, to remember an invalid, and to pay such a welcome call. I appreciate it. In the rain, too.”
Irony was wasted on this shameless woman. She looked at me boldly, and laughed.
“I assure you, Mr. Butterfield,” she replied, “the last thing I thought of when I left home was coming to see you. But oh, the rain! Look at it now.”
I was conscious of the fresh smell of wet pavement from where I sat—the window was open. The wheels of a hansom went past with a watery swish, the horse’s hoofs slapping clear in the deserted street, and the stones shone with a cleanness that they had not known for a month.
“At any rate,” I said magnanimously, “you’re here for an hour or two. It’s not going to stop yet. You may as well make a virtue of entertaining me.”
She bowed mockingly.
“It is I who am entertained,” she replied. “You have helped me in a watery dilemma. I am in your home. I wear your——”
I stopped her. They were not mine. They were Caroline’s.
“Slippers,” she continued, crossing them on the fender. “I think I’ll take Caroline’s place while she’s gadding about with Arthur.”
Again I stopped her. She was not in Caroline’s shoes.