sounded in the hallway.
“That’ll be the colonel,” Miss Whately said. “Yoo-hoo, Jack. In here,” she called.
A doddering old relic of a gentleman shuffled in. He had snow white hair and a lined face. Miss Whately could have picked him up with one hand and lifted him over her head. I did not fear her virtue was in any danger from his advances.
He wore an evening suit of excellent cut. His accessories—gloves, watch chain, and a fine ruby in his cravat—suggested he was well to grass. He also behaved like a gentleman.
“Renie, my dear, charming as ever,” he said in a quavering voice.
“This here is Miss Irving and Miss Thack’ry,” Miss Whately said. The old colonel bowed punctiliously.
“Charmed, ladies. Well, my dear, I hope you are in good appetite. I have reserved us a private room at the Clarendon—and ordered plenty of oysters, just as you like.”
Miss Whately gave us a proud little look, as if to say, See how I have him trained? “Time for fork work,” she said. “You won’t forget about my furniture, Miss Irving? Just set it aside, or ask Sharkey to take it up for me. You have a key to my flat, of course.”
“No,actually ...”
“Scuddie has taken them, then. I would get hold of them if I was you, Miss Irving. If anyone is stupid enough to leave cash in his rooms, she’ll pocket it, sure as shooting. Lud, what we poor working girls have to put up with,” she said to her colonel, with a wild batting of her lashes.
“I wish you would let me take you away from all this, my little flower,” he quavered.
“Now, Jack, you know your wife would skin you alive.” She laughed merrily and took him out, bolstering him up on one side with her own strong body. “Ta ta, ladies. We must be stepping.”
Miss Thackery and I sat in stunned silence a moment. What would the stylish Clarendon Hotel make of that woman? “I shall get the keys from Mrs. Scudpole,” I said, and went after her.
She was in the kitchen, preparing dinner. She parted with the key ring reluctantly. I hoped I would not hear complaints from my tenants of cash or valuables missing from their rooms.
“I see Renie has found a new patron,” Mrs. Scudpole said sourly.
I ignored the word “patron,” although I feared it was accurate enough. “She is dining with Colonel Stone,” I said.
“Hmph. Dining, is it? How does she manage to pay her rent and deck herself out in silks and satins? She has not had a role for five years.”
“You are mistaken. She played in a comedy last winter.”
“Aye, for an audience of one at a time. She has not acted on the stage since I have been here—and that was five years this month. There is another word for what she does. Trollop!’’
I took the keys and left. Miss Whately was the sort of tenant I had originally expected to be living in such a house as this, so I ought not to have been surprised. The relative gentility of the others had raised my expectations. At least she had paid her rent, and she was quiet. There remained only the elusive Sharkey to meet. Miss Whately’s tale of his chair breaking did not lead me to hope for much from him.
For the next hour, the front door was often slammed. Mrs. Clarke and Mr. Butler returned, not together, but within minutes of each other. She was still reading the bulletin board when he came in, and we overheard their excited exclamations about the “free” furniture. Professor Vivaldi came in more quietly. Mr. Alger, having gone to work so late, did not return before dinner. We changed for dinner, but took no great pains with our toilette as the evening might involve some physical labor in the disbursement of the furnishings.
Mrs. Scudpole had exerted herself to roast a stringy, dry chicken and boil potatoes and peas to a mush.
“I shall tackle a small roast myself tomorrow,” Miss Thackery said. “How on earth did she manage to ruin a fresh chicken? This tastes as if it has been in the oven a week.”
“The wings and legs are
“That’ll be the colonel,” Miss Whately said. “Yoo-hoo, Jack. In here,” she called.
A doddering old relic of a gentleman shuffled in. He had snow white hair and a lined face. Miss Whately could have picked him up with one hand and lifted him over her head. I did not fear her virtue was in any danger from his advances.
He wore an evening suit of excellent cut. His accessories—gloves, watch chain, and a fine ruby in his cravat—suggested he was well to grass. He also behaved like a gentleman.
“Renie, my dear, charming as ever,” he said in a quavering voice.
“This here is Miss Irving and Miss Thack’ry,” Miss Whately said. The old colonel bowed punctiliously.
“Charmed, ladies. Well, my dear, I hope you are in good appetite. I have reserved us a private room at the Clarendon—and ordered plenty of oysters, just as you like.”
Miss Whately gave us a proud little look, as if to say, See how I have him trained? “Time for fork work,” she said. “You won’t forget about my furniture, Miss Irving? Just set it aside, or ask Sharkey to take it up for me. You have a key to my flat, of course.”
“No,actually ...”
“Scuddie has taken them, then. I would get hold of them if I was you, Miss Irving. If anyone is stupid enough to leave cash in his rooms, she’ll pocket it, sure as shooting. Lud, what we poor working girls have to put up with,” she said to her colonel, with a wild batting of her lashes.
“I wish you would let me take you away from all this, my little flower,” he quavered.
“Now, Jack, you know your wife would skin you alive.” She laughed merrily and took him out, bolstering him up on one side with her own strong body. “Ta ta, ladies. We must be stepping.”
Miss Thackery and I sat in stunned silence a moment. What would the stylish Clarendon Hotel make of that woman? “I shall get the keys from Mrs. Scudpole,” I said, and went after her.
She was in the kitchen, preparing dinner. She parted with the key ring reluctantly. I hoped I would not hear complaints from my tenants of cash or valuables missing from their rooms.
“I see Renie has found a new patron,” Mrs. Scudpole said sourly.
I ignored the word “patron,” although I feared it was accurate enough. “She is dining with Colonel Stone,” I said.
“Hmph. Dining, is it? How does she manage to pay her rent and deck herself out in silks and satins? She has not had a role for five years.”
“You are mistaken. She played in a comedy last winter.”
“Aye, for an audience of one at a time. She has not acted on the stage since I have been here—and that was five years this month. There is another word for what she does. Trollop!’’
I took the keys and left. Miss Whately was the sort of tenant I had originally expected to be living in such a house as this, so I ought not to have been surprised. The relative gentility of the others had raised my expectations. At least she had paid her rent, and she was quiet. There remained only the elusive Sharkey to meet. Miss Whately’s tale of his chair breaking did not lead me to hope for much from him.
For the next hour, the front door was often slammed. Mrs. Clarke and Mr. Butler returned, not together, but within minutes of each other. She was still reading the bulletin board when he came in, and we overheard their excited exclamations about the “free” furniture. Professor Vivaldi came in more quietly. Mr. Alger, having gone to work so late, did not return before dinner. We changed for dinner, but took no great pains with our toilette as the evening might involve some physical labor in the disbursement of the furnishings.
Mrs. Scudpole had exerted herself to roast a stringy, dry chicken and boil potatoes and peas to a mush.
“I shall tackle a small roast myself tomorrow,” Miss Thackery said. “How on earth did she manage to ruin a fresh chicken? This tastes as if it has been in the oven a week.”
“The wings and legs are
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