and to
other men as a cellar. He opened the door, and cried, "Hullo!" with
the pseudo geniality of the Cockney. There was no reply. "Hullo!" he
repeated. The sitting-room was empty, though the electric light had been
left burning. A look of relief came over his face, and he flung himself
into the armchair.

The sitting-room contained, besides the armchair, two other chairs, a
piano, a three-legged table, and a cosy corner. Of the walls, one was
occupied by the window, the other by a draped mantelshelf bristling
with Cupids. Opposite the window was the door, and beside the door a
bookcase, while over the piano there extended one of the masterpieces of
Maud Goodman. It was an amorous and not unpleasant little hole when the
curtains were drawn, and the lights turned on, and the gas-stove unlit.
But it struck that shallow makeshift note that is so often heard in the
dwelling-place. It had been too easily gained, and could be relinquished
too easily.

As Leonard was kicking off his boots he jarred the three-legged table,
and a photograph frame, honourably poised upon it, slid sideways, fell
off into the fireplace, and smashed. He swore in a colourless sort of
way, and picked the photograph up. It represented a young lady called
Jacky, and had been taken at the time when young ladies called Jacky
were often photographed with their mouths open. Teeth of dazzling
whiteness extended along either of Jacky's jaw's, and positively weighed
her head sideways, so large were they and so numerous. Take my word for
it, that smile was simply stunning, and it is only you and I who will be
fastidious, and complain that true joy begins in the eyes, and that
the eyes of Jacky did not accord with her smile, but were anxious and
hungry.

Leonard tried to pull out the fragments of glass, and cut his fingers
and swore again. A drop of blood fell on the frame, another followed,
spilling over on to the exposed photograph. He swore more vigorously,
and dashed into the kitchen, where he bathed his hands. The kitchen
was the same size as the sitting-room; beyond it was a bedroom. This
completed his home. He was renting the flat furnished; of all the
objects that encumbered it none were his own except the photograph
frame, the Cupids, and the books.

"Damn, damn, damnation!" he murmured, together with such other words as
he had learnt from older men. Then he raised his hand to his forehead
and said, "Oh, damn it all--" which meant something diffe