nlaced beneath a pink
frosted moon.

"Just the thing, if you're writing to your young lady," said Mrs.
Murdoch, offering it to Michael.

He accepted it with many expressions of gratitude, but when he was in
his own room he laughed very much at the idea of sending it to his
mother in Cheyne Walk. However, as he must write and tell her he would
not be home for some time, he decided to go out and buy both writing
materials and unillustrated postcards. When he came back he found Mrs.
Murdoch feathered for the evening's entertainment. She gave him the
latchkey, and from his window Michael watched her progress down Neptune
Crescent. Just before her lavender dress disappeared behind the Portugal
laurels she turned round and waved to him. He wondered what his mother
would say if she knew from what curious corner of London the news of his
withdrawal would reach her to-night.

The house was very still, and the refulgence of the afternoon light
streaming into the small room fused the raw colors to a fiery
concordancy. Upon the silence sounded presently a birdlike fidgeting,
and Michael going out onto the landing to discover what it was, caught
to his surprise the upward glance of a thin little woman in untidy pink.

"Hulloa!" she cried. "I never knew there was anybody in--you did give me
a turn. I've only just woke up."

Michael explained the situation, and she seemed relieved.

"I've been asleep all the afternoon," she went on. "But it's only
natural in this hot weather to go to sleep in the afternoon if you don't
go out for a walk. Why don't you come down and talk to me while I have
some tea?"

Michael accepted the invitation with a courtesy which he half suspected
this peaked pink little creature considered diverting.

"You'll excuse the general untidiness," she said. "But really in this
weather anyone can't bother to put their things away properly."

Michael assented, and looked round at the room. It certainly was untidy.
The large bed was ruffled where she had been lying down, and the soiled
copy of a novelette gave it a sort of stale slovenry. Over the foot hung
an accumulation of pink clothes. On the chairs, too, there were clothes
pink and white, and the door bulged with numberless skirts. Miss Carlyle
herself wore a pink blouse whose front had escaped the constriction of a
belt. Even her face was a flat unshaded pink, and her thin lips would
scarcely have showed save that the powder round the edges was slightly