"Sure has she! Manny's the time I've chased her out," replied Soane
glibly.

"Oh. What does she look like?"

"God knows--annything ye don't wish f'r to look like yourself! Sure, I
disremember what make of woman she might be--her name's enough for
you. Call me up if she comes or rings. She may be a dangerous woman,
at that," he added, "so speak fair to her and listen in to what she
says."

Dulcie slowly nodded, looking at him hard.

Soane put on his faded brown hat at an angle, fished a cigar with a
red and gold band from his fancy but soiled waistcoat, scratched a
match on the seat of his greasy pants, and sauntered out through the
big, whitewashed hallway into the street, with a touch of the swagger
which always characterised him.

* * * * *

Dulcie, both hands buried in her ruddy hair and both thin elbows on
the desk, sat poring over her school books.

Graduation day was approaching; there was much for her to absorb, much
to memorise before then.

As she studied she hummed to herself the air of the quaint song which
she was to sing at her graduation exercises. That did not interfere
with her concentration; but as she finished one lesson, cast aside the
book, and opened another to prepare the next lesson, vaguely happy
memories of her evening party with Barres came into her mind to
disturb her thoughts, tempting her to reverie and the delicious
idleness she knew only when alone and absorbed in thoughts of him.

But she resolutely put him out of her mind and opened her book.

The hall clock ticked loudly through the silence; slanting sun rays
fell through the street grille, across the tessellated floor where
flies crawled and buzzed.

The Prophet sat full in a bar of sunlight and gravely followed the
movements of the flies as though specialising on the study of those
amazing insects.

Tenants of Dragon Court passed out or entered at intervals, pausing to
glance at their letter-boxes or requesting their keys.

Westmore came down the eastern staircase, like an avalanche, with a
cheery:

"Hello, Dulcie! Any letters? All right, old dear! If you see Mr.
Mandel, tell him I'll be at the club!"

Corot Mandel came in presently, and she gave him Westmore's message.

"Thanks," he said, not even glancing at the thin figure in the shabby
dress too small for her. And, after peering into his letter-box, he
went away with the indolent swing of a large and powerful plantigrade,
gaz