Boston Neighbours In Town and OutPoor, Agnes Blake
General
Boston Neighbours In Town and Out
Poor, Agnes Blake
Boston (Mass.) -- Social life and customs -- Fiction; Short stories
energy, and then, after a brief pause, the door was opened by a
half-grown boy.
Marian only knew a very few families who aspired to have their doors
opened by anything more than a parlour-maid, and these had butlers of
unimpeachable respectability. But this young person had a bright, but
roguish look, which accorded better with the page of farce than with one
of real life. He seemed surprised to see her, though he bowed civilly.
"Is Mrs. Hayward at home?" asked Marian, in the most dulcet of small
voices; and as he looked at her with a stare that seemed as if it might
develop into a grin, she added, "or any of the ladies of the family? I
only wish to see one of them on business."
"Walk in, please, ma'am, and I'll see," faltered the porter, appearing
perplexed; and he opened the door, and ushered Marian across a wide hall
with a great, old-fashioned staircase at the further end--a place that
would have had no end of capabilities about it in a modern decorator's
eyes, but which looked now rather bare and unfurnished, save for pegs
loaded with hats and coats, and stands of umbrellas--into a long, low
room that looked crowded enough. Low bookcases ran around the walls, and
there were a great many tables heaped with books and magazines, and a
piano littered with music in a most slovenly condition; a music-stand or
two, and a violin and violoncello in their cases clustered about it. The
walls over the books were hung with old portraits, which looked as if
they might be valuable; among them were squeezed in whips, and long
pipes on racks, and calendars, and over them were hung horns and heads
of unknown beasts, whose skins lay on the floor. Over the fireplace hung
a sword and a pair of pistols in well-worn cases, but they were free
from dust, which many of the furnishings were not. The long windows at
the side opened on to the veranda, which was even more carelessly
strewed with the family possessions than at the front door, and from
which steps led down to a tennis-court in faultless trim, the only
orderly spot on the premises.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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