way I stopped to read the list of names printed on little
slides on a mahogany board. There were forty in all, and they were as
illuminating as such names usually are, when suddenly, three parts down
the list, I came upon one which made my heart leap into my mouth. I
stood reading the few words over and over, actually _spelling_ the
letters in my incredulous surprise, but there it was; there was no doubt
about it--the words plainly printed for every one to see--

"Number 32. Mr Wenham Thorold."

Well, talk about fate! There are some circumstances under which one
realises at once that it is useless to struggle. This was one! I
turned to the porter with an air of resignation.

"I will take the flat. Please prepare the necessary papers, and send
them to me to sign." Then I gave him my new name. After due
deliberation I had determined to be "Miss Mary Harding," as Wastneys is
unusual, and might draw undesirable attention. Miss Mary Harding, of a
basement flat!

CHAPTER SEVEN.

HOSTILITIES?

Our removal into Pastimes--like every other removal since the time when
man began to live beneath a roof--took far longer than we expected. I
went back to Ireland to gather my possessions, and say good-bye, and
Charmion stayed in London to hurry up tradesmen, and make uninteresting
purchases of pots and pans, and dusters and door scrapers, and the other
needfuls which every house must have, but which are so dull to buy.

When I joined her in the hotel, I found her in a state of haughty
displeasure over the extraordinary delay which was attending the work at
Pastimes itself. In another person this state of mind would have found
vent in "fuming," but Charmion never fumed. She folded her hands, and
drooped her white lids, and drawled in a tone of incredulous disgust:--

"I can't understand it. I _told_ them to be quick. I expressly
stipulated that they were not to potter."

"Apparently they are not even `pottering'! They have not begun at all!"
I said grimly, as I ran my eye down the letter just received from the
"man in charge". It was the ordinary, ultra-polite, ultra-servile
production of the tradesman who has _not_ kept his word.

"Dear Madam,--Owing to a press of other work, I regret that I have not
been able to commence--"

"Commence! Odious word. It is adding insult to injury to use it. And
what can he mean? He seemed so keen about the order. Said he was so
slack that he would be able to put on