“What list?” I asks.

“Her doctor, her solicitor, her banker,” says Tessie, checkin’ ’em off on her fingers.

“Say,” says I, “couldn’t I ring in as one of her bankers?  Then I could get this off my chest and not have to come again.”

“I’ll put it up to her,” says Tessie.  “Got a business card on you?”

I had, an engraved one.  Maybe that’s what did the trick, for Tessie comes back smilin’.

“But it’ll take me half an hour or so to fix her up,” says she.  “She’s dreadful fussy about her looks.”

“I got all day,” says I.

But at that it seemed like I’d been shut up in that sobby parlor for a month when Tessie finally gives me the word.  “Come along,” says she.  “And don’t forget to make a noise like a banker.”

Say, after I’d been led up to this faded old relic that’s bolstered with pillows in the armchair by the window, and listened to her wavery, cracked voice, I couldn’t see anything funny in it at all.

It’s a vague, batty sort of talk we had.  Mostly it’s a monologue by her.

“I am quite annoyed,” says she, tappin’ the chair arm with her thin, blue-white finger-nails.  “My income, you know.  It must not be reduced in this way.  You must attend to it at once.  Those Inter-Lake securities.  I’ve depended on those.  Mr. Bagstock gave them to me on our fifth wedding anniversary.  Of course, I am not a business woman.  One can’t neglect one’s social career.  But I have always tried to look after my own securities.  My father taught me to do that when I was a mere girl.  So I wrote about my Inter-Lake Navigation shares.  Why should your firm interfere?  You say in a few months they will pay as well.  But meanwhile?  You see, there are my Wednesdays.  I can’t give them up.  What would people say?  For years that has been my day.  No, no, young man, you must find a way.  Tell your firm that I simply must keep up my Wednesdays.”

And, as she stops for breath, it’s about the first chance I’ve had to spring anything on her.  Old Hickory hadn’t told me not to use his name, and was I to blame if he’d overlooked that point?

“Yes’m,” says I; “I’ll tell Mr. Ellins.”

“Who?” says she, steadyin’ her wanderin’ gaze.  “Mr. Ellins?”

“Old Hickory,” says I.  “He’s president of the Corrugated Trust, ma’am.”

“Really!” says she.  “How odd!  I—­I used to know a young man of that name—­a pushing, presuming, impudent fellow.  In fact, he had the audacity to call on me several times.  He was quite impossible socially; uncouth, awkward, rough spoken.  A mere clerk, I believe.  And I—­well, I was rather a belle that season, I suppose.  At least, I did not lack suitors.  A brilliant season it was for me too, my first.  Our dinners, receptions, dances, were affairs of importance.  How this raw Middle-Westerner came to be invited I’ve forgotten.  Through my father, I presume.