She looked a little reproachful when Daisy laughed, but brightened when Daisy said, “I’d be glad to. May I know your name?”
“Oh dear, I ought to have introduced myself first thing! I am Miss Cabot, Ernestine Cabot—Boston, you know—only averyjunior branch.”
Why this obscure announcement should make Daisy think of fish she had no leisure to contemplate. Miss Cabot turned about, tangling her feet in her own yarn. She would have come to grief had not Kevin, playing truant from his lift, dashed over to prop her up.
“Happens reg’lar, once a week, like clockwork,” he murmured to Daisy.
Though no one else seemed to notice the minor imbroglio, the solitary young man must have been watching, for he also hurried to help. He stooped to unwind the wool, but Miss Cabot turned skittish.
“Oh dear … no, please … so kind, Mr. er-hm …”
“Lambert.”
“Mr … . I’m afraid … ratherindelicate…”
Daisy gathered that female assistance would be appreciated. She disentangled the black lisle stocking-clad ankles while Miss Cabot twittered a series ofoh dearsabove her.
Mr. Lambert offered a hand to help Daisy up, with an oddly assessing look as though he were comparing her face with some inner ideal. Wondering whether she passed muster, Daisy thanked him with a nod and a smile.
“You’re welcome, ma’am.” The words arrived with a whiff of Irish whiskey. Kevin’s business was apparently a going concern, and not all teapots contained tea.
Daisy collected the yarn where it hung down from Miss Cabot’s needles, intending to gather up the excess as she accompanied the old lady to meet her sister. The length of yarn rose a foot or two from the floor just as the impatient man from the lift strode past in his purposeful way. It caught him across the shins.
He barged on, oblivious. The knitting flew from MissCabot’s grasp and the knitting bag attached to the far end of the yarn flopped to the floor.
Lambert caught the man’s sleeve. “Say, look here, wait a minute!”
“You know something about it?” He turned eagerly. Daisy could have sworn his long nose twitched. “You’re willing to talk?”
His face bemused, Lambert blinked. “Talk? I can’t see there’s anything to talk about, buddy, except you might watch where you’re going.”
“Watch … ?” It was his turn to look blank; then he followed Lambert’s gesture to the yellow and white strands adorning his legs. Turning to Miss Cabot, he said sarcastically, “Ah, Madame Defarge strikes again.” His glance moved on to Daisy. “Another victim for Madame Guillotine, I see.”
His French pronunciation was rotten, Daisy noted, even as she wondered if the hackneyed reference to Dickens had any significance beyond its evident malice.
Miss Cabot bridled. “I’m sure I don’t know what you can mean.”
“I don’t suppose you do.” In an effort to disembarrass himself of the yarn, he stepped backwards. The wool clung to his tweeds. He bent down and snapped both strands. “Beware of entanglements with women, sonny,” he advised Lambert. “The only way out is a clean break.” And he strode on.
Lambert picked up the knitting, which had miraculously stayed on the needles. “Sorry, ma’am,” he said sheepishly, handing it to Miss Cabot. “Gee whiz, I guess there’s not much you can do about a guy like that.”
“Oh dear, I’m afraid manners are not what they were,” agreed Miss Cabot.
Stooping again, Lambert retrieved the two loose ends of yarn. Since he obviously had not the least notion what to do with them, Daisy relieved him of them and proceeded at Miss Cabot’s side, winding up the wool as they went.
Lambert moved ahead to pick up the knitting bag and replace it on the table. Any disposition to linger was firmly quashed by Miss Genevieve Cabot.
“Thank you, young man,” she said with a nod of unmistakable dismissal, and as he turned away, a trifle disconsolate, she added, “Notan interesting person.”
Mr. Lambert’s ears reddened.
“Guillotined,” thought Daisy, hoping she was not to meet the same fate.
2
The armchair occupied by Miss Genevieve Cabot commanded a view of both the main entrance and the inner lobby leading to the lifts.Commandedwas the appropriate word. Stout where Miss Cabot was softly plump, Miss Genevieve had a decisive air utterly at odds with her elder sister’s dithers. At Daisy’s approach, she remained seated, but she bowed and indicated the cane leaning against her chair as her excuse for not rising. Reason, perhaps, rather than excuse: she didn’t look as if she was accustomed to make her excuses to anyone. Though her face had an invalidish pallor, there was nothing invalidish about her tone.
“Well, sister?”
