“Sorry if I startled you,” puffed the man, entirely winded by the six flights.  “Must have pushed the wrong button in the vestibule.  No great harm done.”

“Who are you?  What you want?”

“Junk.  That’s one of the things I came to see about—­the junk in back of my place.  I suppose it’s for sale.”  He thrust his white hands into the side pockets of his coat, pulling the coat snugly around his waist and hips, and smiled amiably at Great Taylor’s patent surprise.

“You!....  Buy Grit’s junk business!” What did he want with junk?  He was clean!  From head to foot he was clean!  His hair was parted.  It was not only parted, it was brushed into a wave, with ends pointing stiffly up over his temples (a coiffure affected by bartenders of that day); and Nell even detected the pleasant fragrance of pomade.  “You ain’t a junkman.”

The man laughed.  “I don’t know about that.”

He studied her a moment in silence.  Nell was leaning back against the washtubs, her sleeves rolled up, her head tilted quizzically, lips parted, while tints of colour ebbed and flowed in her throat and cheeks.  She had attained the ripeness of womanhood and very nearly animal perfection.  The man’s attitude might have told her this.  One of his eyes, beneath a permanently cocked eyebrow, blinked like the shutter of a camera and seemed to take intimate photographs of all parts of her person.  The other eye looked at her steadily from under a drooping lid.  “No,” he said, after the pause of a moment, “I’m not going into the junk business.”  But he wanted to get the rubbish away from the back of his place.  “I’ll buy it and have it carted away.  It’s too near the ‘Garden.’” He rocked up on his toes and clicked his heels gently.  “I own the house just around the corner.”

“I knew it,” Nell murmured fatuously.  The man was vaguely familiar, even though she could not remember having seen him before.

“Set your price.”  He turned away, and Nell imagined that his camera-like eye was taking instantaneous photographs of all the broken and mended things in the immaculate room.  A wave of hot blood made her back prickle and dyed her throat crimson.

“I don’t like rubbish,” said the man.  “I don’t like junk.”

“Who does?” stammered Great Taylor.

“You dislike junk, and yet there was your husband, a junkman.”  He watched her narrowly from beneath his drooping eyelid.

Great Taylor was not of the noblesse, nor did she know the meaning of noblesse oblige; and had she been a man, perhaps she would have denied her former lord and master—­once, twice, or even thrice—­it has been done; but being a woman, she said:  “Leave Grit out of it.”

This seemed to please the man from around the corner.  “I think we are going to get on,” he said significantly.  “But you must remember that Grit can’t take care of you any longer.”

“Grit’s gone,” assented Nell; “gone for good.”