Cake found herself in a queer, barnlike place, half room and half hallway, feebly illumined by a single electric bulb suspended above the door. Very composedly she looked about her. If Mr. Arthur Noyes lived in this place, he was one of her own kind and there was no need for any palpitation on her part. Anyway, she was looking solely for her chance to become famous, and she brought to this second stage of her search the same indifference to externals, the same calm, unfaltering courage as she had to the first.
"Now, then," said a voice briskly. "Say what you want. We have not advertised for any extra people. At least--not this year."
A short, stout man emerged from the shadows. He was very blond, with his hair cut snapper, and his pale eyes popped perpetual astonishment. She returned his look steadily and well. She knew she was born to be famous, and fame has a certain beauty of dignity utterly lacking in mere success.
"I am not an extra person," she replied. "I have come to see Mr. Noyes," and she displayed once more the large square envelope, her legacy from the lodger, the knife with which she proposed to shuck from its rough shell that oyster, the world.
The man looked even more astonished, if the thing could have been accomplished, and regarded her keenly--stared.
Cake followed him along a narrow passage that turned off to the right, down five steps, across a narrow entry, up three more steps--although it seems quite silly, she never in her life forgot the odd number of those worn steps--and halted before a closed door. On this the fat man knocked once and opened immediately without waiting.
"Someone I think you'll see," he said, standing between Cake and the interior. There came to her a murmur over his chunky shoulder.
"She has a letter from----" The fat man dropped his voice and mumbled. "Positive," he said, aloud, after a pause broken only by the vague murmur within the room. "I'd know his fist anywhere. Yes." Then he pushed the door open wide, stood aside, and looked at Cake. "Walk in," he said.
She did so. Beautifully. Poems have been written about her walk. Two kinds.
The room she entered was square, with concrete floor and rough walls. But Cake did not notice the room for three reasons: The rug on the floor, four pictures on the walls, and the man who looked at her as she entered.