Adventure, December 1914 — page 142: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

140 which Mr. Adair was shown was one of those diminutive chambers which one seems only to find in flats. Mr. Adair apologized for his appearance. “T have taken very quick advantage of your invitation, Mrs. Bishop Guy; to have met you only this afternoon, and to be tres- passing on you at this hour of the same day, is daring. My excuse is that something you said made me very anxious to see you.”’ “My anxiety is certainly equal to yours. We both wanted very much to see you— didn’t we, Augustus?” Augustus was Mr. Bishop Guy. He was not very much taller than his wife, had sandy hair, gray eyes, and a mustache. “Very pleased to make your acquaint- ance, Mr. Adair. My wife has been talk- ing about nothing else but you ever since she came in. What will you have to drink?” “Nothing, thank you—at least just now.” “Directly Augustus sees a man he asks him what he’ll have to drink. He seems to think that they are like certain plants which have always to be kept moist. Mr. Adair, where have I seen-you before?”’ Adair looked at the lady. She had ona sky-blue dress of rather complicated design, which became her very well. Although she was no longer a girl, she was still young enough to be charming. “I’m quite sure I have never seen you before. I should not have forgotten you if I had.” The visitor said this with an emphasis which made the lady smile. “It’s very nice of you to say so, Mr. Adair—I presume you intend to be compli- mentary; but if I haven’t seen you before I’ve seen some one very like you. When I saw you coming up the lane this after- noon I said to myself, ‘Where have I seen this man before?’ ” “My wife,” explained her husband, “‘is always thinking she has seen people before, or some one exactly like them. It’s a way she has.”’ “That isn’t true, Augustus; and you’ve no right to say so. Husbands, I have al- ready discovered, Mr. Adair, are apt to say things which they have no right to. So you're living at the Dovecote. Are you ‘comfortable?”’ “T could not be more so; I am almost guiltily comfortable.” “How do you mean guiltilye In what Adventure sense can one be guiltily comfortable?” “I understood you to say this afternoon that you were a friend of Miss Dennis.” ‘“T am—her oldest friend. I won’t say her only friend, although I fear I’m not very far from being that—that is why I wished to see you.” “Is she susceptible to your influence, as a friend ought to be?” “That I couldn’t say, until you’ve ex- plained further. In which direction do you wish me to use my influence?” “May I take it that nothing I say to you will be repeated to her?” “Can I count in the same way on you? Till be as silent as the grave if you will.” ‘“‘Then that’s agreed. Now, Mrs. Bishop Guy, since you are her friend can’t you use your influence to induce her to keep a ser- vant?” She laughed, as if she found the gravity of his manner amusing. ““You seem very serious. Why are you so anxious she should keep a servant?” “Isn’t it obvious? My feeling on the matter is purely selfish.” “I’m sure it is, since you are a man.” ‘She does everything about the house, performs the most menial tasks—for me. Clearly she is a lad 5 “She certainly is a lady.” “Very well, then. I have some claims to be—I won’t say a gentleman, but some- thing thereabouts; and I’m supposed to sit still and let her do what no lady ought to do for a man, and not move a finger or vol- unteer the least assistance. Until recently she cleaned my boots.” ‘“‘Who else was there to do it?” “Who else? I’m such an idiot that it never dawned upon me till the other day that she’d do a thing like that; when it did —well, since then I’ve cleaned them myself. She sweeps and she dusts, she goes down on her knees on the carpet in my sitting-room to sweep up my cigar ash. I don’t know how she feels, but the idea of her doing things like that for me makes me hideously uncomfortable.” ‘“She’s your landlady’s daughter, practi- cally your landlady; you’re her lodger—her only source of income.” “You don’t really mean that all the money she has she gets from me?”’ “I do; I’m pretty sure that she doesn’t get a penny from anywhere else.” MICLOOOK (C©@