"Still," she said, "there are nice people here—why, even children!"
"The place is famous," I protested.
"I suppose it must be respectable," she replied, "but I never saw such a mixture!"
She gazed wonderingly about her.
"I suppose it must be New York," she said.
It was half-past eight when we entered the street again. We drove at once to the number Mrs. Neal had given, riding silently and a little nervously, but still marvelling at the scene we had left behind us, a strange setting for two such elder village-folk as we, making us wonder if we had missed much or little by living our lives so greenly and far away.
"I hope she will be at home," said Letitia. "Every one seemed to be going to the theatre."
"For my part," I confessed, "I rather hope we shall not find her."
"But why, Bertram?"
I could not say. The cab stopped. There were lights in the house, and, leaving Letitia, I went up the steps and pulled the bell. The household was at home, apparently, for I heard voices and the music of a piano as I stood waiting at the door. It was one of the older streets, ill-lighted and lined monotonously by those red-brick fronts so fashionable in a former day.