It had swept past us, it had
retreated, but it was now, at this moment, in hiding very close. And it
was watching us.
Perhaps, too, it was mere coincidence that I encountered Mrs. Marsh, his
housekeeper, several times that evening in the short interval between
tea and dinner, and that on each occasion the sight of this gaunt,
half-saturnine woman fed my prejudice against her. Once, on my way to the
telephone, I ran into her just where the passage is somewhat jammed by a
square table carrying the Chinese gong, a grandfather's clock and a box
of croquet mallets. We both gave way, then both advanced, then again
gave way--simultaneously. It seemed, impossible to pass. We stepped with
decision to the same side, finally colliding in the middle, while saying
those futile little things, half apology, half excuse, that are
inevitable at such times. In the end she stood upright against the wall
for me to pass, taking her place against the very door I wished to open.
It was ludicrous.
"Excuse me--I was just going in--to telephone," I explained. And she
sidled off, murmuring apologies, but opening the door for me while she
did so. Our hands met a moment on the handle.
There was a second's awkwardness--it was too stupid.
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