The room was filled with that subtle odour that brought his
other life back to him in a torrent. He was bathed in it, overwhelmed by
it--roast-beef, mutton, blacking, oil-cloth, decayed flowers, geraniums,
damp stone, bread being toasted--all these things were in it.
He filled his nostrils with the delicious pathos and intimacy of it.
She regarded him sternly. "Now, Mr. Peter, it's of no use. Oh, yes, we've
heard about your wedding. You wrote to Miss Monogue. But there were days
before that, many of them, and never so much as a postcard. With some of,
my boarders it would be natural enough, because what could you expect? _We_
didn't want _them_, _they_ didn't want _us_--only habit as you might say.
But you, Mr. Peter--why just think of the way we were fond of you--Mrs.
Lazarus and little Robin and Miss Monogue--as well as myself."
She stopped and pulled out her handkerchief and blew her nose.
"I dare say you're a famous man," she went on, "with your books and your
marriage and the rest of it, but that doesn't alter your old friends being
your old friends and it never will. There, I'm getting cross when all I
mean to say is that I'm more delighted to see you than words."
He was humble before her. He felt, indeed, that he had been the most
unutterable brute. How could he have stayed away all this time with these
dear people waiting for him? He simply hadn't realised--
"And Miss Monogue?" he asked at last, "I'm afraid she's not been very
well?"
"She's been very ill indeed--for months.
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