The house — if one were to judge by this drawing room — was more than adequate, at least to Justin’s somewhat old-fashioned taste. It was cool rather than stuffy, shady rather than dim. The furniture was comfortable, and though a bit worn, was immaculately kept. Justin, after years of grubby, dirty rooms with only infrequent maid service, could appreciate that.
But eventually his curiosity brought him round to the point. He seemed so to have entranced his two hostesses that they had apparently forgotten to mention it.
“The ad mentioned ‘small services,’ ” he began. “Might I inquire what those services are?”
Both sisters hesitated. But then Celestine, the elder — he had shrewdly caught and retained the names — fetched a deep sigh which audibly strained her corseting, and launched into a frank reply.
“Mr. Gravelle, this house is a business establishment. We refer to it as a hotel for refined, elderly ladies. My sister and I are the proprietors, and it- is our sole livelihood. We have five guests, all of whom are our age, or a bit older. But this is not what is sometimes referred to as a boarding house. That would imply, you see, that our guests are victims of genteel poverty. Which is not true. Our five ladies are all widows, and although they might not have the means for extravagant luxury, they can afford our pleasant surroundings here. We can boast of delicious food, clean, spacious rooms, and fine companionship. Our guests are not transients. Our newest arrival has been with us for six years. They are all very satisfied with our homey atmosphere. We call this, incidentally, The Carter House.”
Justin had followed all this with rapt attention. But it had only whetted, not satisfied, his curiosity. “If this is an all-female establishment,” he said, “how do I fit in?”
Victoria smiled, a knowing, almost mischievous smile. “It is precisely because The Carter House is an all-female establishment,” she answered, “that you do fit in.”
Justin Gravelle, despite his long service in that most wicked of institutions, the theatre, was nevertheless an innocent. “I beg your pardon,” he said.
“Don’t you see?” Victoria persisted diabolically.
“No, I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Our guests here are all widows. They crave masculine companionship. My sister and I, of course, have never married, and do not exactly sympathize with this craving. But we operate according to the philosophy that the customer is always right. We are prepared to furnish you free board and room, Mr. Gravelle, in return for your spending a little time each day with our other guests, in the parlor, or out on the porch, or on the lawn — in any respectable place — and just simply being yourself, dining, chatting, watching television, drinking lemonade, playing croquet, whatever happens to be the activity of the moment.”
“And is that all?” Justin asked after a moment, incredulously.
“That is all.”
It was even better, easier, than he could have imagined. If it was merely a matter of being charming and amusing to a few doddering members of the fair sex, it was precisely in his line.
“Do you accept the proposition, Mr. Gravelle?”
It never occurred to him to drive a harder bargain. “Why, of course,” he answered joyfully.
“There is just one stipulation.”
His heart skipped a beat. Had this wonderful situation been offered only to tantalize him, and then to have it snatched away before he could grasp it? His mouth and throat were suddenly parched as he asked, “What is that?”
“Just that you adhere scrupulously to one little rule. We have five ladies as guests here, and they all pay the same rate. Although some of them may seek your special favor, you must never show any partiality. Do you agree?”
“Oh yes,” he almost shouted with joy.
“Because if you would show partiality, it would be fatal, Mr. Gravelle. That is the precise word for the consequences. Fatal.”
The above conversation took place in the morning. Justin Gravelle moved into his new quarters in the afternoon. He was not being given one of the choice rooms, he was told — those were in front — but the neat little bedroom which overlooked the fish pond in the rear garden was luxury to a man in his circumstances. It was sunny and airy, and when Celestine Carter left him alone to get settled, he discovered that the bed was a downy delight.
He lay stretched upon it — minus his coat and trousers to preserve the press — as the afternoon waned toward the promise of dinner time. His mind as well as his body wallowed in the rosy softness of his new life, and he did not question from whence it came, or why, or how long it might endure. Justin was too old to live in the future. All that mattered now was some day-to-day comfort for his tiring flesh.
But as he surrendered himself to this ecstasy, the nostrils in his theatrically shaped nose quivered suddenly, titillated by a familiar smell. Familiar, yet puzzling in this house of females. For try as he might to deny it, or to identify it as something else, the heavy, rather sweet smell was that of pipe tobacco.
For a few moments he merely lay there and let himself be tantalized by it. He himself had given up smoking more than a year ago, not by choice, but rather out of the grim necessity of having to spend all of his Lilliputian income on poor food and poorer lodgings.
Where was the odor coming from? he asked himself. Surely not through the windows from the direction of one of the female guests. Surely not in The Carter House. And besides, the emanation seemed to surround him from all sides, as if it were a quality of the room itself.
Yes, of course! It came to him finally. The odor was in this room. And now that he analyzed it more carefully, he found it was also slightly stale. The former occupant then had been a pipesmoken.
The former occupant! A gentleman, like himself, paid to entertain the feminine guests? But if this was a fine, easy, effortless life, why had this other gentleman left?
The disturbing question was like a sudden, chilly wind blowing across the prostrate form of Justin Gravelle. He shivered in his undershorts. He had had a predecessor undoubtedly, a man something like himself, a little down on his luck. But he had left. A position, as a consequence, had been open. Why had he left? Why had he left?
Justin got up and dressed slowly and thoughtfully. Although he tried to ignore it, there was a small canker of doubt in his mind, an insistent worm, threatening to blight this bed of roses.
He might have asked questions concerning this other, pipesmokeing chap when Celestine came to fetch him to dinner. But by that time he had decided that he really didn’t want to know the answers. If the truth had the power of destroying his present enjoyment, he preferred to live in ignorance.
So he put the whole thing into the back of his mind, and accompanied Celestine down the broad staircase and into the cheery dining room. On the way a new odor, the odor of food, beckoned him with increasing vehemence, and besides, the challenge of a new audience was at hand.
With this double inspiration, he entered the dining room in rare good form. The first thing that caught his eye was the table itself, white cloth and gleaming silver and covered dishes from which delicious steam, arose. It was only by an act of stern self-discipline that he turned his attention from the victuals to his fellow diners.
Celestine handled the introductions, as Justin bowed with courtly gravity to each lady in turn. Farsightedly, he paid strict attention to the names and their accompanying faces.
Alicia Allen was a tiny little old thing with darting blue eyes, snow-white hair, and a wicked, toothless smile. Blanche Norton was twice Alicia’s size and weight, built like a battleship, with iron-gray hair and a face as square as a gun turret. Madeline Howard was wispy and willowy and wistful, with an absent, dreamy gaze, and vestiges of what might have once been good looks. Beatrice Raymond, in direct contrast, was gaunt and hatchet-faced, with hair that had not had the grace to gray. Her raven plumage gave her the appearance of a witch, and Justin wondered how she had ever married in order now to be a widow. The last of the group, Florence Talbot, was short and squat and round; everything about her was round, her barrel-like torso, her button nose, her half-moon smile, her full moon face.