ggested on a sudden impulse that he and Guy should go
and visit Maurice in the studio. It would be pleasant walking along the
Embankment, he said.

"But I thought you wanted to keep quiet," Guy exclaimed.

"No, I've grown restless during dinner; and, besides, I want to make a
few arrangements about the flat, and then be done with that
business--forever."

They started off without waiting for coffee. It was a calm Summer
evening of shadows blue and amethyst, of footfalls and murmurs, an
evening plumy as a moth, warm and gentle as the throat of a pigeon.
Nobody on any pavement was hurrying; and maidservants loitered in area
gates, looking up and down the roads.

The big room at the top of 422 Grosvenor Road had never seemed so
romantic. There were half a dozen people sitting at the open windows;
and Cunningham was playing a sonata of Brahms, a sonata with a melody
that was drawing the London night into this big room where the
cigarettes dimmed and brightened like stars. The player sat at the piano
for an hour, and Maurice unexpectedly made no attempt to disturb the
occasion. Michael thought that perhaps he was wondering what had brought
himself and Guy here, and for that reason did not rush to show Guy his
studio by gaslight: Maurice was probably thinking how strange it was for
Michael to revisit him suddenly like this after their quarrel.

When the room was lighted up, Michael and Guy were introduced to the men
they did not know. Among them was Ronnie Walker, the painter whom
Maurice had mentioned to Michael as an old lover of Lily. Michael knew
now why Maurice had allowed the music to go on so long, and he was
careful to talk as much as possible to Walker in order to embarrass
Maurice, who could scarcely pay any attention to Guy, so nervously was
he watching over his shoulder the progress of the conversation.

Later on Michael called Maurice aside, and they withdrew to the
window-seat which looked out over the housetops. A cat was yauling on a
distant roof, and in the studio Cunningham had seated himself at the
piano again.

"I say, I'm awfully sorry that Ronnie Walker should happen to be here
to-night," Maurice began. "I have been rather cursing myself for telling
you about him and...."

"It doesn't matter at all," Michael interrupted. "I'm not going to marry
her."

"Oh, that's splendid!" Maurice exclaimed. "I've been tremendously
worried about you."

Michael looked at him; he was wondering if it were poss