Horatio Hood Teddem, spreading caviar on a sandwich, and loudly singing his masterpiece, “Waal I swan,” stopped short and fixed amazed eyes on the door of the room.
Mr. Wrenn hastily turned. The light fell—as on a cliff of crumbly gray rock—on Mrs. Zapp, in the open door, vast in her ungirdled gray wrapper, her arms folded, glowering speechlessly.
“Mist’ Wrenn,” she began, in a high voice that promised to burst into passion.
But she was addressing the formidable adventurer, Bill Wrenn. He had to protect his friends. He sprang up and walked across to her.
He said, quietly, “I didn’t hear you knock, Mrs. Zapp.”
“Ah didn’t knock, and Ah want you should—”
“Then please do knock, unless you want me to give notice.”
He was quivering. His voice was shrill.
From the hall below Theresa called up, “Ma, come down here. Ma!”
But Mrs. Zapp was too well started. “If you think Ah’m going to stand for a lazy sneaking little drunkard keeping the whole street awake, and here it is prett’ nearly midnight—”