“Yes, exactly. You see just how it is. On the floor above you, in the
back, is Mr. Hamilton, such a nice man and so unfortunate. Lost every
cent he had in Wall Street and is beginning all over again. Fine,
isn’t it? Yes, I feel it and don’t say anything when he’s behind with
his rent. How could I?” Though I hadn’t said a word she looked at me
reprovingly as if I had suggested sending the delinquent Mr. Hamilton
to jail. “That’s not my way. I know it’s foolish of me. You needn’t
tell me so, but that’s how I’m made.”
I began to feel that I ought to offer my next month’s rent at once. I
have a bad memory and might be a day or two late.
“The room in front, over your parlor, is vacant. Terrible, isn’t it?
I tried to make Mr. Hamilton take the whole floor through. Even if he
isn’t good pay--”
I broke in, determined to hear no more of Mr. Hamilton’s financial
deficiencies.
“Who’s on the top floor?”
There was a slight abatement of Mrs. Bushey’s buoyancy. She looked at
me with an eye that expressed both curiosity and question.
“Miss Harris lives there,” she answered. “Have you seen her?”