“God’s going to be good to me soon,” she said to the frying-pan. “I know He is—I know He is.”
The sunshine thrilled her veins with a new sense of life. Two affectionate sparrows set up a lover-like duet on the kitchen window-sill. The air was full of young spring. All was right with the world.
“Hallo!” It was Wynne’s voice calling. “I say, I can’t possibly ask Quiltan to this shabby old place. It would bias any one. I’ll ring him up and tell him to meet me at the club. G’bye.”
A moment later the front door slammed. The sound scared the sparrows at their courtship and sent them fluttering to a tree below.
Then Eve sat down, and resting her head on the kitchen table, cried as if her soul were broken in two.
V
Wynne rang up Quiltan’s number, and was answered by the manservant, who said:
“Very good, sir. I will tell him.” But when he went to do so he found his master had already gone out.
Lane Quiltan was somewhat surprised when the door of Wynne’s flat was opened by a girl who by no stretch of imagination could be thought to belong to the servant class. She wore a coarse apron, her sleeves were rolled up, and there was a redness about her eyes that could only have come from tears.
“I beg your pardon,” he said; “is this Mr. Rendall’s flat?”