“Will you come and see if there’s anything wrong with my husband?” she asked wildly.
“Why, mum?” answered the window-cleaner, who knew her, and was humbly familiar. “Is he taken bad or something? Yes, I’ll come.”
He was a tall thin man with a brown beard. His clothes were all so loose, his trousers so baggy, that he gave one the impression his limbs must be bone, and his body a skeleton. He pushed at his ladders with a will.
“Where is he, mum?” he asked officiously, as they slowed down at the side passage.
“He’s in his bedroom, and I can’t get an answer from him.”
“Then Is’ll want a ladder,” said the window-cleaner, proceeding to lift one off his trolley. He was in a very great bustle. He knew which was Siegmund’s room: he had often seen Siegmund rise from some music he was studying and leave the drawing-room when the window-cleaning began, and afterwards he had found him in the small front bedroom. He also knew there were matrimonial troubles: Beatrice was not reserved.
“Is it the least of the front rooms he’s in?” asked the window-cleaner.
“Yes, over the porch,” replied Beatrice.
The man bustled with his ladder.
“It’s easy enough,” he said. “The door’s open, and we’re soon on the balcony.”
He set the ladder securely. Beatrice cursed him for a slow, officious fool. He tested the ladder, to see it was safe, then he cautiously clambered up. At the top he stood leaning sideways, bending over the
