October 6.—I had a talk with Arthur today. Yesterday I could not bring myself to speak of the previous night’s happening, but all of this nonsense must be cleared away.
We were in the library. A fire was burning in the grate, and Arthur had his feet on the fender. The slippers he wears, by the way, are as objectionable to me as his dressing-gown. They are felt slippers, old and worn, and frayed around the edges as if they had been gnawed by rats. I cannot imagine why he does not get a new pair.
“Say, old man,” I began abruptly, “do you own this house?”
He nodded.
“Don’t you rent any of it?”
“Downstairs—to Mrs. Harlan.”
“But upstairs?”
He hesitated, then shook his head.
“No, it’s inconvenient. There’s only a peculiar way to get upstairs.”
I was struck by this.