In answer to his ring a girl came to the door. She was rather short, thin, and dressed in black, with a clean white apron2. In the half light of the narrow lobby he made out a mahogany hat-rack of conventional shape, and on a wooden bracket a small lamp with a tarnished3 reflector.
"No," Richard heard in a quiet, tranquil4 voice, "Mr. Aked has just gone out for a walk. He didn't say what time he should be back. Can I give him any message?"
"He sent me a card to come down and see him this afternoon, and—I've come. He said about seven o'clock. It's a quarter past now. But perhaps he forgot all about it."
"Will you step inside? He may only be away for a minute or two."
"No, thanks. If you'll just tell him I've called—"
"I'm so sorry—" The girl raised her hand and rested it against the jamb of the doorway5; her eyes were set slantwise on the strip of garden, and she seemed to muse6 an instant.
"Are you Mr. Larch7?" she asked hesitatingly, just as Richard was saying good-day.
"Yes," answered Richard.
"Uncle was telling me he had had dinner with you. I'm sure he'll be back soon. Won't you wait a little while?"
"Well—"
She stood aside, and Richard passed into the lobby.
The front room, into which he was ushered8, was full of dim shadows, attributable to the multiplicity of curtains which obscured the small bay window. Carteret Street and the half-dozen florid, tawny9, tree-lined avenues that run parallel to it contain hundreds of living rooms almost precisely10 similar. Its dimensions were thirteen feet by eleven, and the height of the ceiling appeared to bring the walls, which were papered in an undecipherable pattern of blue, even closer together than they really were. Linoleum11 with a few rugs served for a carpet. The fireplace was of painted stone, and a fancy screen of South African grasses hid the grate. Behind a clock and some vases on the mantelpiece rose a confection of walnut12 and silvered glass. A mahogany chiffonier filled the side of the room farthest from the window; it had a marble top and a large mirror framed in scroll13 work, and was littered with salt-cellars, fruit plates, and silver nicknacks. The table, a square one, was covered by a red cloth of flannel-like texture14 patterned in black. The chairs were of mahogany and horsehair, and matched the sofa, which stretched from the door nearly to the window. Several prints framed in gilt15 and oak depended by means of stout16 green cord from French nails with great earthenware17 heads. In the recess18 to the left of the hearth19 stood a piano, open, and a song on the music-stand. What distinguished20 the room from others of its type was a dwarf21 bookcase filled chiefly with French novels whose vivid yellow gratefully lightened a dark corner next the door.
"Uncle is very forgetful," the girl began. There was some sewing on the table, and she had already taken it up. Richard felt shy and ill at ease, but his companion showed no symptom of discomposure. He smiled vaguely22, not knowing what to reply.
"I suppose he walks a good deal," he said at length.
"Yes, he does." There was a second pause. The girl continued to sew quietly; she appeared to be indifferent whether they conversed23 or not.
"I see you are a musician."
"Oh, no!" She laughed, and looked at his eyes. "I sing a very little bit."
"Do you sing Schubert's songs?"
"Schubert's? No. Are they good?"
"Rather. They're the songs."
"Classical, I suppose." Her tone implied that classical songs were outside the region of the practical.
"Yes, of course."
"I don't think I care much for classical music."
"But you should."
"Should I? Why?" She laughed
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