The room was almost warm with it. It seemed to
centre in Elfrida; as she sat beside the writing-table,
whose tumultuous papers had been pushed away to make room
for the breakfast dishes, she was instinct with it.
Miss Bell glanced hurriedly around the room. It was
unimpeachable--not so much as a strayed collar interfered
with its character as an apartment where a young lady
might receive. "Come in," she said. She knew the knock.
The door opened slowly to a hesitating push, and disclosed
Mr. Golightly Ticke by degrees. Mr. Ticke was accustomed
to boudoirs less rigid in their exclusiveness, and always
handled Miss Bell's door with a certain amount of
embarrassment. If she wanted a chance to whisk anything
out of the way he would give her that chance. Fully in
view of the lady and the coffee-pot Mr. Ticke made a
stage bow. "Here is my apology," he said, holding out a
letter; "I found it in the box as I came in."
It was another long thick envelope, and in its upper left
hand corner was printed, in early English lettering, _The
St. George's Gazette_. Elfrida took it with the faintest
perceptible change of countenance. It was another
discomfiture, but it did not prevent her from opening
her dark eyes with a remote effect of pathos entirely
disconnected with its reception.
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