liked him. It was his frankness
that drew her, though if he had been a frank old woman she would have
liked him as well.

"My father says that. He says it is Ma Tamby's fault. He can't bear
her."

For a while they discussed it. Paliser maintaining that were it not for
the war she ought to go to Paris and Cassy asserting, though without
conviction, that the specialty of the Conservatoire consisted in dried
fruit.

Finally she said: "It must be late. I have a wrap somewhere and oh! my
orchids."

The young person was summoned. The wrap was recovered, the orchids
reappeared.

Paliser, helping Cassy with the wrap, said: "Shall I see it here again?"
He knew he would but he thought it civil to ask.

Cassy too had her thoughts. The freedom with which, during the
ham-and-eggs episode, his eyes had investigated her, where was it? On
Sunday he had bored her to tears. That also had gone. During the past
hour or two he had shown himself reasonably intelligent, unpresuming,
without offensiveness of any kind. With a movement of the hand she
lifted the wrap at her neck. "Here?"

It occurred to her that she did not know where the polished and inlaid
floor on which she stood was located. Nor did she particularly care.
Besides if her geography were vague, the floor was pleasant, a bit
slippery perhaps, though just how slippery she was yet to learn.

"Yes. The day after to-morrow. Why not? I would like to run over a score
or two with you."

"Good heavens! You are not composing an opera, are you?"

Paliser laughed. "I want to lead you away from painted mush into the
arms of----"

"Not Strauss?" Cassy interrupted. "Art does not recognise frontiers but
the Huns do not either and I will not recognise a Hun. Is the car at the
door?"

He saw her out and away, and reentering the house went to a room in the
wing. It was lined with bookcases that you did not have to break your
back to examine. They began four feet from the floor and ended two feet
higher. The room contained other objects of interest.

From among the latter, Paliser helped himself to a brandy and soda. It
had been dry work. The drink refreshed him. It stimulated too. Also it
suggested. He put the glass down and lightly swore at it.

"Damn Benny! He has only one thumb."

For a moment he eyed the glass. Then taking from a shelf Gautier's very
spiritual account of the de Maupin, he eyed that. Not for long though.
He put it back. He did not want to read. He did not