Now, as he
passed through a tangle of small streets that led indirectly to the
elegant Mayfair terrace for which he was bound, a horror at the idea of
confronting Joan Sebastable at her tea-table seized on him. A momentary
deliverance presented itself; on one floor of a narrow little house at
the noisier end of Esquimault Street lived Rhoda Ellam, a sort of remote
cousin, who made a living by creating hats out of costly materials. The
hats really looked as if they had come from Paris; the cheques she got
for them unfortunately never looked as if they were going to Paris.
However, Rhoda appeared to find life amusing and to have a fairly good
time in spite of her straitened circumstances. Cushat-Prinkly decided to
climb up to her floor and defer by half-an-hour or so the important
business which lay before him; by spinning out his visit he could
contrive to reach the Sebastable mansion after the last vestiges of
dainty porcelain had been cleared away.
Rhoda welcomed him into a room that seemed to do duty as workshop,
sitting-room, and kitchen combined, and to be wonderfully clean and
comfortable at the same time.
"I'm having a picnic meal," she announced.
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