The Messalina of the Suburbs. E. M. Delafield
isn't Mortimer Crescent?"
"It is, very much so indeed, begging your pardon for contradicting a lady."
"Well, don't come any further," begged Elsie. "Tata, and thanks for carrying the bag."
"When do I see you again?"
"I dunno! Never, I should think."
"Seven o'clock to-night?"
"No, I can't, really."
"To-morrow, then? I'll be outside the Belsize Park station, and we'll go on the razzle-dazzle together. I'd like to show you a bit of life. Seven o'clock, mind."
"You and your seven o'clock! You'll be somewhere with your young lady, I know."
"Haven't got one."
"Wouldn't she have you?" scoffed Elsie. "No accounting for tastes, is there?"
"I'll make you pay for this to-morrow night, you little witch—see if I don't!"
Elsie had caught hold of her suitcase, and began to walk away from him.
"Which number are you going to?"
"Eight."
"I'll ring the bell for you."
He did so, rather to her fright and vexation. She urged him in low tones to go away, but he continued to stand beside her on the doorstep, laughing at her annoyance, until a capped and aproned maid opened the door.
Then he lifted his hat, said " Good-night " very politely, and went away.
She never saw him again.
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