ld on to his Companies; and he would still have a hundred a year or
more to spare for Rosamund and her youngsters. He could live on four
hundred, or even three-fifty, without losing his independence, for there
would be no standing life in that holy woman's house unless he could pay
his own scot! A good day's work! The best for many a long month!

The cab stopped before the villa.

3

There are rooms which refuse to give away their owners, and rooms
which seem to say: 'They really are like this.' Of such was Rosamund
Larne's--a sort of permanent confession, seeming to remark to anyone
who entered: 'Her taste? Well, you can see--cheerful and exuberant; her
habits--yes, she sits here all the morning in a dressing-gown, smoking
cigarettes and dropping ink; kindly observe my carpet. Notice the
piano--it has a look of coming and going, according to the exchequer.
This very deep-cushioned sofa is permanent, however; the water-colours
on the walls are safe, too--they're by herself. Mark the scent of
mimosa--she likes flowers, and likes them strong. No clock, of course.
Examine the bureau--she is obviously always ringing for "the drumstick,"
and saying: "Where's this, Ellen, and where's that? You naughty gairl,
you've been tidying." Cast an eye on that pile of manuscript--she
has evidently a genius for composition; it flows off her pen--like
Shakespeare, she never blots a line. See how she's had the electric
light put in, instead of that horrid gas; but try and turn either of
them on--you can't; last quarter isn't paid, of course; and she uses an
oil lamp, you can tell that by the ceiling: The dog over there, who will
not answer to the name of 'Carmen,' a Pekinese spaniel like a little
Djin, all prominent eyes rolling their blacks, and no nose between--yes,
Carmen looks as if she didn't know what was coming next; she's
right--it's a pet-and-slap-again life! Consider, too, the fittings of
the tea-tray, rather soiled, though not quite tin, but I say unto you
that no millionaire's in all its glory ever had a liqueur bottle on it.'

When old Heythorp entered this room, which extended from back to front
of the little house, preceded by the announcement "Mr. Aesop," it was
resonant with a very clatter-bodandigo of noises, from Phyllis playing
the Machiche; from the boy Jock on the hearthrug, emitting at short
intervals the most piercing notes from an ocarina; from Mrs. Larne on
the sofa, talking with her trailing volubility t