"There was a young person here, waiting about to see you, been waiting
the best part of an hour. I let her into your sitting-room."
"Any name?" Burton asked.
The caretaker looked thoughtfully up at the ceiling.
"Said she was your wife, sir. Sorry if I've done wrong. It came over
me afterwards that I'd been a bit rash."
Burton threw open the door of his sitting-room and closed it quickly
behind him. It was indeed Ellen who was sitting in the most
uncomfortable chair, with her arms folded, in an attitude of grim but
patient resignation. She was still wearing the hat with the wing, the
mauve scarf, the tan shoes, and the velveteen gown. A touch of the
Parisienne, however, was supplied to her costume by a black veil dotted
over with purple spots. Her taste in perfumes was obviously unaltered.
"Ellen!" he exclaimed.
"Well?" she replied.
As a monosyllabic start to a conversation, Ellen's "Well?" created
difficulties. Instead of his demanding an explanation, she was doing
it. Burton was conscious that his opening was not brilliant.
"Why, this is quite a surprise!" he said. "I had no idea you were
here."
"Dare say not," she answered. "Didn't know I was coming myself till I
found myself on the doorstep.
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