caked. Yet there was nothing of pink's freshness and pleasant crudity in
the general effect. It was a tired, a frowsy pink like a fondant that
has lain a long while in a confectioner's window.

"Take a chair and make yourself at home," she invited him. "What's your
name?"

He told her "Fane."

"You silly thing, you don't suppose I'm going to call you Mr. Fane, do
you? What's your other name? Michael? That's Irish, isn't it? I used to
know a fellow once called Micky Sullivan. I suppose they call you Micky
at home."

He was afraid he was invariably known as Michael, and Miss Carlyle
sighed at the stiff sort of a name it was.

"Mine's Poppy," she volunteered. "That's much more free and easy. Or I
think so," she added rather doubtfully, as Michael did not immediately
celebrate its license by throwing pillows at her. "Are you really
lodging here?" she went on. "You don't look much like a pro."

Michael said that was so much the better, as he wasn't one.

"I've got you at last," cried Poppy. "You're a shop-walker at
Russell's."

He could not help laughing very much at this, and the queer pink room
seemed to become more faded at the sound of his merriment. Poppy looked
offended by the reception of her guess, and Michael hastened to restore
her good temper by asking questions of her.

"You're on the stage, aren't you?"

"I usually get into panto," she admitted.

"Aren't you acting now?"

"Yes, I don't think. You needn't be funny."

"I wasn't trying to be funny."

"You mind your business," she said bitterly. "And I'll look after mine."

"There doesn't seem to be anything very rude in asking if you're acting
now," said Michael.

"Oh, shut up! As if you didn't know."

"Know what?" he repeated.

He looked so genuinely puzzled that Poppy seemed to make an effort to
overcome her suspicion of his mockery.

"It's five years since I went on the game," she said.

Michael blushed violently, partly on her account, partly for his own
stupidity, and explained that Mrs. Murdoch had told him she was in the
profession.

"Well, you didn't expect her to say 'my ground-floor front's a gay
woman,' did you?"

He agreed that such an abrupt characterization would have surprised him.

"Well, I'm going out to get dinner now," she announced.

"Why don't you dine with me?" Michael suggested.

She looked at him doubtfully.

"Can you afford it?"

"I think I could manage it."

"Because if we _are_ in the same house that