Ticke's door she wrapped
once, and cursorily at that. Mr. Ticke was as conversational
as you please on all occasions, and besides, Mr. Ticke's
door was usually half open. The shroud of mystery in
which Mrs. Jordan wrapped her "third floor front" grew
more impenetrable as the days went by. Her original
theory, which established Elfrida as the heroine of the
latest notorious divorce case, was admirably ingenious,
but collapsed in a fortnight with its own weight. "Besides,"
Mrs. Jordan reasoned, "if it 'ad been that person, ware
is the corrispondent all this time? There's been nothin'
in the shape of a corrispondent hangin' round _this_
house, for I've kep' my eye open for one. I give 'er up,"
said Mrs. Jordan darkly, "that's wot I do, an' I only
'ope I won't find 'er suicided on charcoal some mornin'
like that pore young poetiss in yesterday's paper."
Another knock, half an hour later, found Elfrida finishing
her coffee. Out-of-doors the world was gray, the little
square windows were beaten with rain. Inside the dreariness
was redeemed to the extent of a breath, a suggestion. An
essence came out of the pictures and the trappings, and
blended itself with the lingering fragrance of the
joss-sticks and the roses and the cigarettes in a delightful
manner.
Pages:
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98