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Updated: June 22, 2025
I should be glad if you could tell me what it is," Oleron replied as he unfolded the bag and related the story of its finding in the window-seat. "I think I know what it is," said Miss Bengough. "It's been used to wrap up a harp before putting it into its case." "By Jove, that's probably just what it was," said Oleron. "I could make neither head nor tail of it...."
Something did persist in the house; it had a tenant other than himself; and that tenant, whatsoever or whosoever, had appalled Oleron's soul by producing the sound of a woman brushing her hair. Without quite knowing how he came to be there Oleron found himself striding over the loose board he had temporarily placed on the step broken by Miss Bengough. He was hatless, and descending the stairs.
They finished the tour of the flat, and returned to the sitting-room. "And who lives in the rest of the house?" Miss Bengough asked. "I dare say a tramp sleeps in the cellar occasionally. Nobody else." "Hm!... Well, I'll tell you what I think about it, if you like." "I should like." "You'll never work here." "Oh?" said Oleron quickly. "Why not?" "You'll never finish Romilly here.
Assuming for the sake of argument the slightly ridiculous proposition that the room in which Oleron sat was characterised by a certain sparsity and lack of vigour; so much the worse for Miss Bengough; she certainly erred on the side of redundancy and general muchness. And if one must contrast abstract qualities, Oleron inclined to the austere in taste....
He began to commit it by admitting the inexplicable and horrible to an increasing familiarity. He did it insensibly, unconsciously, by a neglect of the things that he now regarded it as an impertinence in Elsie Bengough to have prescribed.
I recollect there was one old Alderman, of the name of Bengough, who was almost frantic during my speech, and some of his friends were obliged to hold him down by mere force. The cry was, who is he? What is his name? Is he a freeman or a freeholder of the county?
I was on the point of burning it, but I didn't. It's in that window-seat, if you must see it." Miss Bengough crossed quickly to the window-seat, and lifted the lid. Suddenly she gave a little exclamation, and put the back of her hand to her mouth. She spoke over her shoulder: "You ought to knock those nails in, Paul," she said. He strode to her side. "What? What is it?
The ceilings were lofty, and faintly painted with an old pattern of stars; even the tapering mouldings of his iron fireplace were as delicately designed as jewellery; and Oleron walked about rubbing his hands, frequently stopping for the mere pleasure of the glimpses from white room to white room.... "Charming, charming!" he said to himself. "I wonder what Elsie Bengough will think of this!"
It had last come some minutes ago; it came again now a sort of soft sweeping rustle that seemed to hold an almost inaudibly minute crackling. For half a minute or so it had Oleron's attention; then his heavy thoughts were of Elsie Bengough again. He was nearer to loving her in that moment than he had ever been.
Why, Oleron himself had had a dust-up with him about something or other ... some girl or other ... Elsie Bengough her name was, he remembered.... Oleron had moments of deep uneasiness about this Elsie Bengough. Or rather, he was not so much uneasy about her as restless about the things she did.
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