come habitable and pleasant. The voice of
the old lady recalled me to myself as I pulled down the last blind.

"I am sorry to have to bring you down here," she said. "It is hardly
the sort of room in which a lady usually receives visitors, but you
will perhaps understand my liking for it when I tell you that I have
lived here many years."

The information surprised me.

"Whatever induced you to do that?" I asked without thinking, then
recollected that I had no right to ask the question. "You must excuse
my question," I added, "but I fear you find it very lonely unless you
have some one living with you?"

"I live here," she replied, "absolutely alone, and yet I am never
lonely."

"You have some occupation?" I suggested.

"Yes," she replied, "I write for the newspapers."

This piece of information astounded me more than ever. I imagined it
to be the last place from which "copy" would emanate for the present
go-ahead public prints, and the old lady to be the last person who
could supply it.

She saw my puzzled look, and came to my aid with further information.

"Not the newspapers of this country," she added, "the newspapers of--of
foreign countries."

I was more satisfied with this answer; the requirements of most foreign
journals had not appeared to me to be excessive.

"I too am a brother of the pen," I answered, "I write books of sorts."

The old lady broke into a very sweet smile which lighted up her
charming old face.

"Permit me to shake hands," she suggested, "with a fellow-sufferer in
the cause of Literature."

I took her hand and noted its soft elegance, old though she was.

She crossed to a carved cupboard which was fixed in the wall, and took
from it a tiny Venetian decanter, two little glasses, and a silver
cigarette case.

"We must celebrate this meeting," she suggested with another smile, "as
disciples of the pen."

She filled the two little glasses with what afterwards proved to be
yellow Chartreuse, and held one glass towards me.

"Pray take this," she suggested, "it will be good for you after being
out in the damp air."

I took the tiny glass of yellow liqueur in which the candlelight
sparkled, and sipped it; it was superb.

"Now," she continued, indicating an armchair on the farther side of the
fireplace, "sit and let us talk."

I took the chair, and she opened the silver box of cigarettes and
pushed them towards me.

"I presume you smoke?" she suggested. "I smoke mysel