“I’ve been spoiled for believing anything, by so much talk!”
“Don’t try to settle things ahead of time,” Miss Claes repeated laughingly. “Let the days—each day tell its story. I’m just living out life as you are.... And now undress and get into bed. I know you’re too tired to sleep, but I’m going to fix you in and open your window and put out your light, and sit with you for a minute, perhaps in the dark. You’re just to rest—a tired little girl—and not even hear me go away.”
V
LUNCHEON AT SHARPE’S
RICHARD COBDEN and John Higgins were lunching at Sharpe’s Chop House. It was one-thirty, and at the height of the day’s business. The tables were packed close.
“You were telling me about that Asiatic landlady down in the Village,” Higgins said, lifting his spectacles to wipe his red-rimmed eyes.
“I wasn’t telling you much,” said Dicky. “She’s too deep for me—looks to thrive on coffee and cigarettes—eyes that have seen too much, a lot of laughter in them, but no hope.... And what would you think of a basement room, with flowers in winter and a fireplace with hickory embers, a Byzantine jar in the corner and a cabinet of porcelain which I haven’t seen the like of on this side?”
“Go on—don’t mind me,” said John Higgins.
“... Little old Harrow Street,” Dicky mused. “Harrow Street curves, you know. There is quite a mass of rooming houses on each side, and number Fifty-four, with a green front, is Miss Claes’ house. And our Mr. Naidu works there with his hands; only they call him Nagar in that house—spelled with an ‘a’ but pronounced ‘nog.’... By the way, he told me twice, yesterday, that it isn’t a fiction story we’ve bought, but a handling of things that actually happened in Africa—Little Man an actual human being named Gandhi or something of the sort.”
“Can’t be done. Fiction and life are different,” said John Higgins.
Dicky resumed: “Some of Miss Claes’ lodgers happened in for the tea party. No one barred apparently. I must have seen most of the houseful: couple of girl-pals; one works in a restaurant to support the other who is to become a prima donna; a couple of decayed vaudeville artists looking for a legacy—a regular houseful, but I don’t believe all of them pay, as they would have to in other houses.”