The Lodger: A Novel by Louisa Treger Read Free Book Online Page A

him disappearing into another world was strangely painful. Was he with kindhearted people, she wondered; was he already part of their lives … estranged from her; altered?
    She turned to the Canadian doctor on her other side: a tall grey-clad form. He was an up-and-coming young surgeon; one of Mrs. Baker’s favorite boarders. (“A very nice dependable gentleman; he always settles his account on time. I wish I had more like him.”) He had fair hair and blunt, even features.
    “Wasn’t it a marvelous day?” Dorothy asked him. “Did you see the late afternoon light?”
    “Well, no; I was trapped inside the hospital all day,” Dr. Weber said regretfully.
    Did you see the sunset ? It was extraordinary this evening  … God evidently ate raspberry custard for supper . Dorothy’s breath caught in her throat.
    Dr. Weber was saying, “But on my walk home, I did think it the finest sample of London weather I’ve seen. Generally speaking, the weather is the worst part of living in London.” His low steady voice held a curious rounded intonation.
    “I don’t know what you’ve got against London weather. It’s peerless; you won’t find a better climate anywhere.”
    Dr. Weber’s laugh rang out, lively and deep-chested. “I can’t say I totally agree. Before the current fine spell, it rained for a week without stopping.”
    “I suppose only a handful of people think English weather marvelous. But it has its own character and charm. I love the misty atmosphere of dull days; it makes everything mysterious and exciting.”
    “Well, there we part company, I’m afraid. I can’t see any merit in your grey days.”
    He smiled at her, showing strong even teeth. His manner was easy and genuine, without being complacent. Dorothy could see why Mrs. Baker was so happy to have him. He was completely oblivious to the shifts and secrets of the bankrupt house, yet he brought an influence into it that was wholesome and distinguished.
    Mrs. Baker was carving the chicken. Carrie handed around two heaped dishes of vegetables. Mrs. Baker put a generous helping of chicken and gravy in front of Dorothy. She took it to pass it on.
    “That’s for you, my dear,” Mrs. Baker said. Dorothy thanked her and was rewarded with the smile that she loved. It smoothed every line from Mrs. Baker’s worn face and made it luminous … her eyes were perfectly kind; her whole being exuded kindness.
    “I don’t know if I should tell you…” Miss Boyd began, looking down at her hands.
    Dorothy turned her attention back to her. “Tell me what?”
    “I went out late last night and cycled around Bloomsbury—in nothing but a petticoat.”
    “Really? How brave you are! It must have been blissful.”
    “It was. I could have wept with frustration, afterward, at not being able to shed my deadly layers of clothing once and for all. It would transform life.”
    “That magnificent feeling of freedom.”
    “Yes, and not only that; think of never having to clean the mud off your skirt again.”
    “I know. It would be heaven.”
    A smile irradiated Miss Boyd’s face, making it nearly beautiful. She hadn’t exchanged more than a few words with Dorothy until now, but their spontaneous last-minute affinity, cemented by a shared love of bicycles, seemed very sweet. It was like one of those sudden mysterious friendships that flower between schoolgirls.
    “I spend hours trying to keep my skirts clean,” Miss Boyd said. “It makes me furious to think of all the other things I could be doing with the time. Life is unfair, for women.”
    “Don’t tell me you’d rather be a man, Miss Boyd.”
    “Oh, sometimes I would.” She sighed gustily. “The world belongs to men. They hold everything in their hands.”
    “ I wouldn’t, ever. I’d simply hate to have a man’s mind.”
    “Why?”
    There was a pause, while Dorothy struggled to explain herself. The mind of a woman was deeper, more instinctive and less articulate than that of a man. Women were