At nine she sent to say she should go, but could not think of dragging
him there: she should take her maid.
Before eleven, she half repented this resolution, but her maid kept her
to it; and at half past twelve next day they reached Mr. Rolfe's door;
an old-fashioned, mean-looking house, in one of the briskest
thoroughfares of the metropolis; a cabstand opposite to the door, and a
tide of omnibuses passing it.
Lady Bassett viewed the place discontentedly, and said to herself,
"What a poky little place for a writer to live in; how noisy, how
unpoetical!"
They knocked at the door. It was opened by a maid-servant.
"Is Mr. Rolfe at home?"
"Yes, ma'am. Please give me your card, and write the business."
Lady Bassett took out her card and wrote a line or two on the back of
it. The maid glanced at it, and showed her into a room, while she took
the card to her master.
The room was rather long, low, and nondescript; scarlet flock paper;
curtains and sofas green Utrecht velvet; woodwork and pillars white and
gold; two windows looking on the street; at the other end folding-doors
with scarcely any wood-work, all plate-glass, but partly hidden by
heavy curtains of the same color and material as the others. Accustomed
to large, lofty rooms, Lady Bassett felt herself in a long box here;
but the colors pleased her.
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