" So she
went swiftly on, pausing once before a picture-dealer's
in the Strand to make a mocking mouth at the particularly
British quality of the art which formed the day's exhibit,
and once to glance at a news-stand where two women of
the street, one still young and pretty, the other old
and foul, were buying the _Police Gazette_ from a
stolid-faced boy. "What a subject for Nadie," she said
to herself, smiling, and hurried on. Twenty yards further
a carter's horse lay dying with its head upon the pavement.
She made an impulsive detour of nearly half a mile to
avoid passing the place, and her thoughts recurred
painfully to the animal half a dozen times. The rain
came down again before she reached the _Consul_ office;
a policeman misinformed her, she had a difficulty in
finding it. She arrived at last, with damp skirts and
muddy boots. It had been a long walk, and the article
upon American social ideals was limp and spotted. A door
confronted her, flush with the street. She opened it.
and found herself at the bottom of a flight of stairs,
steep, dark, and silent. She hesitated a moment, and then
went up. At the top another closed door met her, with
_The Consul_ painted in black letters on the part of it
that consisted of ground glass somewhat the worse for
pencil-points and finger-nails.
Pages:
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108