was making up her mind what to do. Babbing watched her over his benevolent spectacles. When she raised her eyes to his, she smiled in the way that is called “fetching”—when it succeeds.
“My name is Mrs. Dart,” she said. “This is for a Mrs. Andrews who has a lodging house across the street.” And her tone in reference to Mrs. Andrews and the “lodging house” was slighting.
Babbing stammered: “Am I— Have I— Across the street, m’am?”
“At one-twenty-five.”
“But—”
She pointed to the street number in the superscription of the letter. “It ’s the fault of the typewriter, you see. There ’s both a five and a six.”
One glance satisfied Babbing that it was even so. He plucked off his spectacles, distressed, and apologetic. “I beg your pardon, Mrs.—”
“Dart.”
