Despite the heat, he was cheerful. Things
were beginning to run his way a little now. A novelette, an airy
trifle, conceived in days when the thermometer was lower and it was
possible to think, and worked out almost mechanically, had been
accepted by a magazine of a higher standing than those which hitherto
had shown him hospitality. He began to dream of a holiday in the woods.
The holiday spirit was abroad. Alcala was emptying itself. It would not
be long before he too would be able to get away.
He was so deep in his thoughts that at first he did not hear the
knocking at the door. But it was a sharp, insistent knocking, and
forced itself upon his attention. He got up and turned the handle.
Outside in the passage was standing a girl, tall and sleepy-eyed. She
wore a picture-hat and a costume the keynote of which was a certain
aggressive attractiveness. There was no room for doubt as to which
particular brand of scent was her favourite at the moment.
She gazed at Rutherford dully. Like Banquo's ghost, she had no
speculation in her eyes. Rutherford looked at her inquiringly, somewhat
conscious of his shirt-sleeves.
'Did you knock?' he said, opening, as a man must do, with the
inevitable foolish question.
The apparition spoke.
'Say,' she said, 'got a cigarette?'
'I'm afraid I haven't,' said Rutherford, apologetically.
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