"I'll go down and see them off," I finished lamely, and we went together
down the stairs.
Just for the moment I forgot Bella altogether. I found Aunt Selina
bonneted and cloaked, taking a stirrup cup of Pomona for her nerves,
and the rest throwing on their wraps in a hurry. Downstairs Max was
telephoning for his car, which wasn't due for an hour, and Jim was
walking up and down, swearing under his breath. With the prospect of
getting rid of them all, and, of going home comfortably to try to forget
the whole wretched affair, I cheered up quite a lot. I even played up my
part of hostess, and Dallas told me, aside, that I was a brick.
Just then Jim threw open the front door.
There was a man on the top step, with his mouth full of tacks, and he
was nailing something to the door, just below Jim's Florentine bronze
knocker, and standing back with his head on one side to see if it was
straight.
"What are you doing?" Jim demanded fiercely, but the man only drove
another tack. It was Mr. Harbison who stepped outside and read the card.
It said "Smallpox."
"Smallpox," Mr. Harbison read, as if he couldn't believe it. Then he
turned to us, huddled in the hall.
"It seems it wasn't measles, after all," he said cheerfully. "I move we
get into Mr. Reed's automobile out there, and have a vaccination party.
I suppose even you blase society folk have not exhausted that kind of
diversion."
But the man on the step spat his tacks in his hand and spoke for the
first time.
"No, you don't," he said. "Not on your life. Just step back, please, and
close the door. This house is quarantined."