“Is she a contralto or soprano?”
“Dramatic mezzo,” said Mrs. Bushey. “She’s trying to get an opening,
but,” she compressed her lips and shook her head gloomily, “there are
so many of them and her voice is nothing wonderful. But she evidently
has some money, for she pays her rent regularly.”
I felt immensely relieved. As Mrs. Bushey rose to her feet I too rose
lightly, encouragingly smiling. Mrs. Bushey did not exhibit the cheer
fitting to the possession of so satisfactory a lodger. She buttoned her
jacket, murmuring:
“I don’t like taking singers, people complain so. But when one is
working for one’s living--” Her fingers struggled with a button.
“Of course,” I filled in, “I understand. And I for one won’t object to
the music.”
Mrs. Bushey seemed appeased. As she finished the buttoning she looked
about the room, her glance roaming over my possessions. For some
obscure reason I flinched before that inspection. Some of them are
sacred, relics of my mother and of the years when I was a wife--only
a few of these. Mrs. Bushey’s look was like an auctioneer’s hand
fingering them, appraising their value.
Finally it fell to the rug. I had forgotten it; now was my chance.
Suddenly it seemed a painful subject to broach and I sought for a
tactful opening. Mrs. Bushey pressed its crimson surface with her foot.
“Isn’t this a beautiful rug?” she said. “It’s a real Samarcand.”