Walshingham opened the door to him herself. "I'm so glad you've come," she said, with one of her rare smiles.
She stood aside for him to enter the rather narrow passage.
"I thought I'd call," he said, retaining his hat and stick.
She closed the door and led the way to a little drawing-room, which impressed Kipps as being smaller and less emphatically coloured than that of the Cootes, and in which at first only a copper bowl of white poppies upon the brown tablecloth caught his particular attention.
"You won't think it unconventional to come in, Mr. Kipps, will you?" she remarked. "Mother is out."
"I don't mind," he said, smiling amiably, "if you don't."
She walked around the table and stood regarding him across it, with that same look between speculative curiosity and appreciation that he remembered from the last of the art class meetings.
"I wondered whether you would call or whether you wouldn't before you left Folkestone."
"I'm not leaving Folkestone for a bit, and any'ow, I should have called on you."
"Mother will be sorry she was out. I've told her about you, and she wants, I know, to meet you."
"I saw 'er—if that was 'er—in the shop," said Kipps.
