She looked across a smooth green lawn, on which were set a few wicker chairs and tables, to a rose garden which, even in autumn, was a blaze of colour. Behind this was a belt of pine trees that seemed to run to the cliff’s edge. She had a glimpse of a gray-blue sea and a blur of dim smoke from a steamer invisible below the straight horizon. A gentle wind carried the fragrance of the pines to her, and she sniffed ecstatically.
“Isn’t it gorgeous!” she breathed.
The cabman said it “wasn’t bad” and pointed with his whip again.
“It’s that little square place—only built a few years ago. Mr. Daver is more of a writing gentleman than a boardinghouse gentleman.”
She unlatched the oaken gate and walked up the stone path toward the sanctum of the writing gentleman. On either side of the crazy pavement was a deep border of flowers—she might have been passing through a cottage garden.
There was a long window and a small green door to the annex. Evidently she had been seen, for, as her hand went up to the brass bell-push, the door opened.
It was obviously Mr. Daver himself. A tall, thin man of fifty, with a yellow, elflike face and a smile that brought all her sense of humour into play. Very badly she wanted to laugh. The long upper lip overhung the lower, and except that the face was thin and lined, he had the appearance of some grotesque and foolish mascot. The staring, round brown eyes, the puckered forehead, and a twist of hair that stood upright on the crown of his head made him more brownie-like than ever.
“Miss Belman?” he asked, with a certain eagerness.
He lisped slightly and had a trick of clasping his hands as if he were in an agony of apprehension lest his manner should displease.
“Come into my den,” he said, and gave such emphasis to the last word that she nearly laughed again.
The “den” was a very comfortably furnished study, one wall of which was covered with books. Closing the door behind her, he pushed up a chair with a little nervous laugh.
“I’m so very glad you came. Did you have a comfortable journey? I’m sure you did. And is London hot and stuffy? I’m afraid it is. Would you like a cup of tea? Of course you would.”
He fired question and answer so rapidly that she had no chance of replying, and he had taken up a telephone and ordered the tea before she could express a wish on the subject.
“You are young, very young.” He shook his head sadly, “Twenty-four—no? Do you use the typewriter? What a ridiculous question to ask!”
“It is very kind of you to see me, Mr. Daver,” she said, “and I don’t suppose for one moment that I shall suit you, I have had no experience in hotel management, and I realize, from the salary you offer—”
“Quiet,” said Mr. Daver, shaking his head solemnly: “that is what I require. There is very little work, but I wished to be relieved even of that little. My own labours”—he waved his hand to a pedestal desk littered with paper—“are colossal. I need a lady to keep accounts—to watch my interests. Somebody I can trust. I believe in faces, do you? I see that you do. And in character shown in handwriting? You believe in that also. I have advertised for three months and have interviewed thirty-five applicants. Impossible! Their voices—terrible! I judge people by their voices. So do you. On Monday, when you telephoned, I said to myself, ‘The Voice!’ ”
He was clasping his hands together so tightly that his knuckles showed whitely, and this time her laughter was almost beyond arrest.
“Although, Mr. Daver, I know nothing of hotel management, I think I could learn, and I want the position, naturally. The salary is terribly generous.”
“ ‘Terribly generous,’ ” repeated the man, in a murmur. “How curious those words sound in juxtaposition!”
The door opened and a woman bearing a silver tray came in. She was dressed very neatly in black. The faded eyes scarcely looked at Margaret as she stood meekly waiting while Mr. Daver spoke.
“My housekeeper. How kind of you to bring the tea, Mrs. Burton!—Mrs. Burton, this is the new secretary to the company. She must have the best room in the Keep—the Blue Room. But—ah!”—he pinched his lip anxiously—“blue may not be your colour?”
Again Margaret laughed.
“Any colour is my colour,” she said. “But I haven’t decided—”
“Go with Mrs. Burton; see the house—your office—your room.”
He pointed to the door, and before the girl knew what she was doing she had followed the housekeeper through the door. A narrow passage connected the private office of Mr. Daver with the house, and Margaret was ushered into a large and lofty room which covered the superficial area of the Keep.
“The banquittin’ ’all,” said Mrs. Burton in a thin cockney voice remarkable for its monotony. “It’s used as a lounge. We’ve only got three boarders. Mr. Daver’s very partic’lar. We get a lot in for the winter.”
“Three boarders isn’t a very paying proposition,” said the girl.
Mrs. Burton sniffed.
“Mr. Daver don’t want it to pay. It’s the company he likes. He only turned it into a boardin’ ’ouse because he likes to see people come and go without having to talk to ’em. It’s a nobby.”
“A what?” asked the puzzled girl. “Oh, you mean a hobby?”
“I said a nobby,” said Mrs. Burton, in her listless, uncomplaining way.
Beyond the hall was a small and cosy sitting room with French windows opening on to the lawn. Outside the windows, three people sat at tea. One was an elderly clergyman with a strong, hard face.
