the door to the hall stood wide and, inside, was open a door to the front room on the right which, from its position and decoration, evidently had once been the "living room" of the first floor flat south, but now, from its furniture, was a sort of office.
Marjorie walked in.
A "day bed" of the familiar pseudo-couch pattern was against the wall directly opposite the door; beside it was a row of neat, mahogany drawers, quite as suggestive of domestic as of any business use and giving Marjorie the impression that upon occasions, if not customarily, some one slept in this room; but filing cabinets in mahogany—which almost covered the spot on the wall paper where an upright piano had once stood—a telephone and a large mahogany roll-top desk, with its back to the door, created the office atmosphere. At the desk was sitting a trim, alert-looking red-haired woman of about forty. She did not look up at once but finished reading a typewritten letter which she held; she placed it with her other mail and, when she glanced up, it was with a complete dismissal of what she had been doing and with a wholeness of attention to the fresh matter in hand which made Marjorie appreciate that, whatever else this woman might be, she attended to business first.
"I've come to see about a room," Marjorie addressed her.
The woman's glance over her applicant was quick but amazingly comprehensive; Marjorie felt not only her clothing estimated but a shrewd guess made at her underclothing; not only the new cleanness of her gloves observed but the fact that, upon her gloved fingers, she wore no rings.
"Single or double?"
