Wired Love, Ella Cheever Thayer [hot novels to read .txt] 📗

To her, as yet, there was a certain fascination about telegraphy. But she had a presentiment that in time the charm would give place to monotony, more especially as, beyond a certain point, there was positively no advancement in the profession. Although knowing she could not be content to always be merely a telegraph operator, she resolved to like it as well and as long as she could, since it was the best for the present.

As she lighted the gas in her room, she thought not of these things that were so often in her mind, but of C, and then scolded herself for caring whether that distant individual was man or woman. What mattered it to a young lady who felt herself above flirtations?

So there was a little scowl on her face as she turned around, that did not lessen when she beheld Miss Kling standing in her doorway. For Miss Rogers did not, to speak candidly, find her landlady a congenial spirit, and only remained upon her premises because being there was a lesser evil than living in that most unhomelike of all places, a boarding house.

“I thought I would make you a call,” the unwelcome visitor remarked, rubbing her nose, that from constant friction had become red and shining; “I have been lonesome today. I usually run into Mrs. Simonson’s in the afternoon, but she has been out since twelve o’clock. I can’t make out⁠—” musingly, “where she can have gone! not that she is just the company I desire. She has never been used to anything above the common, poor soul, and will say ‘them rooms,’ but she is better than no one, and at least can appreciate in others the culture and standing she has never attained,” and Miss Kling sneezed, and glanced at Nattie with an expression that plainly said her lodger would do well to imitate, in this last respect, the lady in question.

“I am very little acquainted with Mrs. Simonson,” Nattie replied, with a tinge of scorn curling her lip, for, in truth, she had little reverence for Miss Kling’s blue blood. “Her lodgers like her very much, I believe; at least, Quimby speaks of her in the highest terms.”

“Quimby!” repeated Miss Kling, with a sniffle of contempt. “A blundering, awkward creature, who is always doing or saying some shocking thing!”

“I know that he is neither elegant nor talented, and is often very awkward, but he is honest and kindhearted, and one is willing to overlook other deficiencies for such rare qualities,” Nattie replied, a little warmly, “and so Mrs. Simonson feels, I am confident.”

Miss Kling eyed her sharply.

“Not at all! Allow me, Miss Rogers, to know! Mrs. Simonson endures his blunders, because, as she says, he can live on the interest of his money, ‘on a pinch,’ and she thinks such a lodger something of which to boast. On a pinch, indeed!” added Miss Kling, with a sneeze, and giving the principal feature in her face something very like the exclamation, “a very tight pinch it would be, I am thinking!” Then somewhat spitefully she continued, “But I was not aware, Miss Rogers, that you and this Quimby were so intimate! The admiration is mutual, I suppose?”

“There is no admiration,” replied Nattie, with a flash of her gray eyes, inwardly indignant that anyone should insinuate she admired Quimby⁠—honest, blundering Quimby, whom no one ever allowed a handle to his name, and who was so clever, but like all clever people, such a dreadful bore. “I have only met him two or three times since that evening you introduced us in the hall, so there has hardly been an opportunity for anything of that kind.”

“You spoke so warmly!” Miss Kling remarked. “However,” conciliatingly, “I don’t suppose by any means that you are in love with Quimby! You are much too sensible a young lady for such folly!”

Nattie shrugged her shoulders, as if tired of the subject, and after a spasm of sneezing, Miss Kling continued:

“As you intimate, he means all right, poor fellow! and that is more than I should be willing to acknowledge regarding Mrs. Simonson’s other lodger, that Mr. Norton, who calls himself an artist. I am sure I never saw anyone except a convict wear such short hair!” and Miss Kling shook her head insinuatingly.

From this beginning, to Nattie’s dismay, Miss Kling proceeded to the dissection of their neighbors who lived in the suite above, Celeste Fishblate and her father. The former, Miss Kling declared, was setting her cap for Quimby. Mr. Fishblate being an unquestionably disagreeable specimen of the genus homo, with a somewhat startling habit of exploding in short, but expressive sentences⁠—never using more than three consecutive words⁠—Nattie naturally expected to hear him even more severely anathematized than anyone else. But to her surprise, the lady conducting the conversation declared him a “fine sensible man!” At which Nattie first stared, and then smiled, as it occurred to her that Mr. Fishblate was a widower, and might it not be that Miss Kling contemplated the possibility of his becoming that other self not yet attained?

Fortunately Miss Kling did not observe her lodger’s looks, so intent was she in admiration of Mr. Fishblate’s fine points, and soon took her leave.

After her departure, Nattie changed her inky dress, and put on her hat to go out for something forgotten until now. As she stepped into the hall, a tall young man, with extremely long arms and legs, and mouth, that, although shaded by a faint outline of a mustache, invariably suggested an alligator, opened the door of Mrs. Simonson’s rooms, opposite, and seeing Nattie, started back in a sort of nervous bashfulness. Recovering himself, he then darted out with such impetuosity that his foot caught in a rug, he fell, and went headlong downstairs, dragging with him a fire-bucket, at which he clutched in a vain effort to save himself, the two jointly making a noise that echoed through the silent halls, and brought out the inhabitants of the rooms