It was high time that the world made no mistake about it. Men of Albert Smull’s sort had better understand what was his status vis-à-vis with Eris.
Intensely annoyed—and without any reason, as he realised—he went out in a characteristically masculine frame of mind, hailed a disreputable taxi on Greenwich Avenue, and drove to Jane Street.
The declining sun, not yet low enough to transmute its ugliness to terms Turneresque, searched out every atom of shabbiness and squalor in the humble street. And it all added to his sullen dissatisfaction.
“One thing,” he muttered; “—she’s got to get out of this dirty district. It’s no place for the girl I’m going to marry.”
Fat Hattie admitted him, simpering her welcome:
“Yuh flowers done come, Mistuh Annan. They’s just grand, suh. Miss Eris she’s taking a bath. She says foh you to go into the settin’ room, Mistuh Annan. Might I offah yuh the hospitality of some Sherry wine, Mistuh Annan?”
He declined and went in; stood looking around at the plain, familiar place, brightened only by his flowers.
“Another thing,” he thought irritably, “—this installment-plan furniture has got to go. She doesn’t seem to know what nice things look like.... She hasn’t any comforts in her bed-room, either. This third-rate existence has got to stop.”
Unreasonably glum he picked up the evening paper, unfolded it, stood holding it; but his gaze rested on her closed door. Then, even as he gazed, it opened and the girl herself came out in a soft wool robe and slippers, her chestnut hair in lovely disorder.