Staggchase admitted. "I wonder where she lives
now. Didn't Frances Merrivale send her address?"
"She lives on Catawba Street, at the top of a speaking tube in one of
those dreadful apartment houses where you shout up the tube and they
open the door for you by electricity. I wonder how soon it will be,
Fred, before you'll drop in a nickel at the door of an apartment house
and the person you want to see will be slid out to you on a platform."
"Gad! That wouldn't be a bad scheme," her husband returned, with an
appreciative grin. "But, really now, what are you going to do about
this girl. She's a sort of cousin, you know, and she's a great friend
of the Livingstons."
"We might ask her to come here after she gets through with that woman.
I'll write her if you like."
"Without calling?" Mr. Staggchase asked, lifting his eyebrows a little.
"My dear," his wife responded, "I try to do my duty in that estate in
life to which I have been appointed, and I am willing to made all
possible exceptions to all known rules in favor of your family; but
Mrs. Sampson is an impossible exception. I will do nothing that shows
her that I am conscious of her existence."
"But it will be awfully rude not to call."
"One can't be rude to such creatures as Mrs. Sampson," returned Mrs.
Staggchase, with unmoved decision. "She is one of those dreadful women
who watch for a recognition as a cat watches for a mouse.
Pages:
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193