Page:Weird Tales Volume 5 Number 4 (1925-04).djvu/75

74 previously done by telephone. I wanted to occupy my time, and this appeared to me the most sensible thing for a woman of my habits; it would give me a little walk each morning, and it is human nature for a tradesman to give you better service when you appear in person than when you are nothing but a voice heard daily over the telephone. Portia did not care; she told me to do exactly as I chose, if it made me happy and contented. I got the names of her tradespeople and about 9 o'clock went out with my list of needed articles.

Directly opposite where Gilman Street adjoins the boulevard I saw a little building about twelve feet square, with gold lettering on the door: OWEN EDWARDES, Successor to A. J. Edwardes, Real Estate.

It gave me quite a comfortable feeling to know that the young man's office was so close at hand. A silly thought, perhaps, being quite illogical, but I felt it just the same. An automobile was standing outside and as I crossed the boulevard Owen himself came out and locked his office door. Then he looked up and took off his hat to me with a smile that warmed my heart, it was so frank and pleased-looking.

"Well, if here isn't Aunt Sophie!" said he gayly. "What is she wandering about for, so early in the morning?"

"I am going to do the marketing, Mr. Edwardes," said I, trying hard to be severe with him, for he really hadn't the slightest right to call me Aunt Sophie, although I believe Portia had not introduced me as Miss Delorme.

"Please don't frown on me so! I can't bear to start the day with a scowl," he implored whimsically. "And for pity's sake don’t call me Mr. Edwardes. I can only be Owen to Aunt Sophie."

How could anybody maintain dignity with such a rogue? I laughed outright. whereat he joined me with a good will.

"Now, I call that fine, Aunt Sophie. We're good friends now, aren't we? Now that we've laughed together? Let me take you down to the butcher's or the baker's or wherever you're headed, won't you? I'm going that way myself—have to call on a Russian princess who's buying a house from me."

I hesitated. There would in all likelihood be further inferences drawn from my seeming familiarity with this pleasing young man. But, after all, the harm must have been done the evening before, for Portia had quite indifferently observed that most of the neighborhood gossip had its fountain-head at the Differdale-Arnold home on Elm Street. I got into the automobile, assisted by the affable Owen, who insisted upon covering me up as carefully as if we were starting for a long drive.

He let me out at the butcher's, about six blocks off. I noticed that everybody seemed to know him, hailing him cordially and familiarly as we went along. Even the policeman opened the door of his little station opposite the butcher-store, and shouted a facetious greeting. I thought he said something about going to see the princess, and not to be too proud of his swell friends; to which Owen called back as he started away, that he'd introduce O'Brien to the princess as soon as she settled in the neighborhood.

Poor O'Brien, looking so straight and robust in his blue uniform! How little did he dream then under what circumstances he was to meet the Russian princess!

That morning I made the acquaintance of Mike Amadio, the Italian fruiterer and green-grocer, and of Gus Stieger, the butcher. I left my orders, stating that I would call two