" With some diffidence, for the encounter was not of a
kind common in her experience, Irene asked this person for a
direction to the rooms occupied by Miss Hannaford.
"Oh, she's my chum," was the genial reply. "Top floor, front. You'll
find her there."
With thanks the visitor passed on, but had not climbed half a dozen
steps when the clear-sounding voice caused her to stop.
"Beg your pardon and all that kind of thing, but would you mind
telling her that Tomkins is huffy? I forgot to mention it before I
came out. Thanks, awfully."
Puzzled, if not disconcerted, Miss Derwent reached the top floor and
knocked. A voice she recognised bade her enter. She found herself in
a bare-floored room, furnished with a table, a chair or two, and a
divan, on the walls a strange exhibition of designs in glaring
colours which seemed to be studies for street posters. At the table,
bending over a drawing-board, sat Olga Hannaford, her careless
costume and the disorder of her hair suggesting that she had only
just got up. She recognised her visitor with some embarrassment.
"Irene--I am so glad--I really am ashamed--we keep such hours
here--please don't mind!"
"Not I, indeed! What is there to mind? I spoke to someone downstairs
who gave me a message for you. I was to say that Tomkins was huffy.
Do you understand?"
Olga bit her lip in vexation, and to restrain a laugh.
"No, that's too bad! But just like her.
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