THERE is one thing in the front room I must get rid of--the rug. It is
a nightmare with a crimson ground on which are displayed broken white
particles that look like animalcula in a magnified drop of water. I
had just made up my mind that it must be removed when Mrs. Bushey
opportunely came in.
Mrs. Bushey lives next door (she has two houses under her wing) and
when not landladying, teaches physical culture. I believe there is no
Mr. Bushey, though whether death or divorce has snatched him from her I
haven’t heard. She is a stout dark person somewhere from twenty-eight
to forty-eight--I can’t tell age. I am thirty-three and have wrinkles
round my eyes. She has none. It may be temperament, or fat, or the bony
structure of the skull, or an absence of furtive tears.
She talks much and rapidly which ought to tend to a good combination
between us, as listening is one of the things I do best. From our
conversation, or perhaps I ought to say our monologue, I got an
impressionistic effect of my fellow lodgers past and present. The
lady who lived here before me was a writer and very close about money.
It was difficult to collect her rent, also she showed symptoms of
inebriety. I gathered from Mrs. Bushey’s remarks and expression that
she expected me to be shocked, and I tried not to disappoint her, but I
couldn’t do much with a monosyllable, which was all she allowed me.
A series of rapid sketches of the present inmates followed. Something
like this:
“Mrs. Phillips, the trained nurse, and her aunt, in the basement are
terrible cranks, always complaining about the plumbing and the little
boys who will stop on their way home from school and write bad words
on the flags. They think they own the back garden, but they don’t. We
all do, but what’s the use of fighting? I never do, I’ll stand anything
rather than have words with anybody.”