“I prefer rooms—they are more homely.”
A couple of addresses were written on the back of an envelope (“No, not that one.” Eliphalet recognised Mornice’s writing, and smiled), and armed with these, he and she and their more portable assets climbed into a cab.
Ronald was a shade disappointed at being left behind, but he had told Mornice they would want to see her at the office by five o’clock. To which she replied:
“I’ll be there at four, then, and you can do me a tea beforehand. By-oh, Ron,” as they rattled over the cobbles of the station yard.
“Now,” said Eliphalet, “we have a choice between Mrs. Devon and Mrs. Montmorency. Which shall it be?”
Mornice voted in favour of “The West Countrie” as being less high-sounding than Montmorency. Accordingly they addressed themselves to Mrs. Devon’s knocker.
Alas! but the good lady’s rooms were already engaged. Yes, she had heard of Mrs. Montmorency, but could claim no actual acquaintance.
“I think,” she hazarded, “she’s been abroad a good deal. But there! it doesn’t do to say anything, and there isn’t any reason to suppose she won’t make you comfortable—but still! That’s the house at the corner—Number Six. The one with the funny blinds.”
So they crossed the road and attacked the bell of Number Six, and after a decent pause the door was opened by a middle-aged woman with an apron but no cap.
Eliphalet addressed her as “Madam” and enquired if she were Mrs. Montmorency.