“Pray come in, mademoiselle,” he said with a bow, and ushered her into the little salon.
His visitor was a young woman, quietly but elegantly dressed. Twenty-four at the outside, she was a tall, fair, pretty girl; a heavy veil partly masked the brilliance of her complexion of lilies and roses; she wore mourning weeds.
Moche, after a brief survey, pointed to a chair and invited her to state her business.
“Sir,” began the unknown, “at present I am living in the Rue des Couronnes, but on account of my work—I am employed in the correspondence office of a factory at Aubervilliers—I am anxious, very naturally, to make my home nearer the place where I work. Well, I have been to see a flat in your house in the Rue de l’Evangile that would suit me, provided you would consent, as the concierge led me to hope you would, to make a trifling alteration.”
The girl spoke simply, equally without exaggerated timidity and undue assurance.
Moche looked at her with interest, preoccupied as he was; still he forced himself to attend to the conversation. Meantime, to gain time and recover his equanimity, he asked:
“Whom have I the honour to address?”
“True,” the young woman apologized, “I have not told you my name yet; I am called ... Elisabeth Dollon.”
The girl had pronounced the name only after a momentary hesitation, a fact which did not escape M. Moche’s perspicacity. He said nothing, but cast a long, scrutinizing glance at his visitor. He saw that she was colouring.
“Mademoiselle Elisabeth Dollon,” he repeated the name; “now it’s a curious thing, but somehow the name strikes me as not unfamiliar.”