He crossed the room slowly and sat down on the
edge of the sofa. She placed his teacup on the table in front
of him.
“There we are,” she said. “How nice and cozy this is,
isn’t it?”
Billy started sipping his tea. She did the same. For half
a minute or so, neither of them spoke. But Billy knew that
she was looking at him. Her body was half turned toward
him, and he could feel her eyes resting on his face, watching
him over the rim of her teacup. Now and again, he caught
a whiff of a peculiar smell that seemed to emanate16 directly
from her person. It was not in the least unpleasant, and it
reminded him—well, he wasn’t quite sure what it reminded
him of. Pickled walnuts? New leather? Or was it the corridors
of a hospital?
At length, she said, “Mr.Mulholland was a great one
for his tea. Never in my life have I seen anyone drink as
much tea as dear, sweet Mr.Mulholland.”
“I suppose he left fairly recently,” Billy said. He was still
puzzling his head about the two names. He was positive now
that he had seen them in the newspapers—in the headlines.
“Left?” she said, arching her brows. “But my dear boy,
he never left. He’s still here. Mr. Temple is also here. They’re
on the fourth floor, both of them together.”
Billy set his cup down slowly on the table and stared at
his landlady. She smiled back at him, and then she put out
one of her white hands and patted him comfortingly on the
knee. “How old are you, my dear?” she asked.
“Seventeen.”
“Seventeen!” she cried. “Oh, it’s the perfect age! Mr.
Mulholland was also seventeen. But I think he was a trifle
shorter than you are; in fact I’m sure he was, and his teeth