"I ain't sayin' nothin' against this house for the price, dearie, but my, this is a comedown. The last time I done straight clairvoyant work, it was in a family hotel with three rooms and a bath and breakfast in bed. Well, there's ups an' downs in this business. I've been down before and up again—"
Hattie, her mouth relieved of a pillowcase, spoke boldly the question in her mind.
"What put you down?"
Rosalie, her head on one side, considered the arrangement of the pink ribbon, before she answered:
"Jealousy, dearie; perfessional jealousy. The Vango trumpet seances were doin' too well to suit that lyin', fakin', Spirit Truth outfit in Brooklyn—wasn't that the bell?"
It was. Hattie patted the pillow into place, and sped for the door.
"If it's for me," whispered Rosalie, "don't say I'm in—say you'll see." Rosalie bustled about, putting the last touches on the room, pulling shut the bead portières which curtained alcove and bed.
Hattie poked her head in the door.
"It's a gentleman," she said.
"Well, come inside and shut the door—no use tellin' him all about himself," said Rosalie. "I'm—I'm kind of expectin' a gentleman visitor I don't want to see yet. It's a matter of the heart, dearie," she added. "What sort of a looking gentleman?"