y curl-papers: of
last night's tear-smudged face remained no memory in this beaming
countenance.

"Quite a set-out we had last night, didn't we?" she said expansively.
"But that Poppy, really, you know, she is the limit. Driving home with
my old man in a hansom cab. There's a nice game to get up to. I was
bound to let her have it. I couldn't have held myself in."

"I suppose you'll get rid of her now," said Michael.

"Oh, well, she's not so bad in some ways, and very quiet as a rule. She
was a bit canned last night, and I suppose I'd had one or two myself.
Oh, well, it wouldn't do, would it, if we never had a little enjoyment
in this life?"

She left him wondering how he would ever be able to readjust his
standards to the topsyturvy standards of the underworld, the topsyturvy
feuds and reconciliations, the hatreds; the loves and jealousies and
fears. But to-day he must leave this looking-glass world for a time.

Mrs. Murdoch was very much upset by his departure from Neptune Crescent.

"It seems such a pity," she said. "And just as I was beginning to get
used to your ways. Oh, well, we'll meet again some day, I hope, this
side of the cemetery."

Michael felt some misgivings about ordering a hansom after last night,
but Mrs. Murdoch went cheerfully enough to fetch one. He drove away from
Neptune Crescent, waving to her where she stood in the small doorway
looking very large under that rusty frail veranda. He also waved rather
maliciously to Poppy, as he caught sight of her sharp nose pressed
against the panes of the ground-floor front.

CHAPTER III

THE CAFE D'ORANGE

Michael came back to Cheyne Walk with a sense of surprise at finding
that it still existed; and when he saw the parlormaid he half expected
she would display some emotion at his reappearance. After Neptune
Crescent, it was almost impossible to imagine a female who was not
subject to the violence of her mutable emotions. Yet her private life,
the life of the alternate Sunday evening out, might be as passionate and
gusty as any scene in Neptune Crescent. He looked at the
tortoise-mouthed parlormaid with a new interest, until she became waxily
pink under his stare.

"Mrs. Fane is in the drawing-room, sir." It was as if she were rebuking
his observation.

His mother rose from her desk when he came to greet her.

"Dearest boy, how delightful to see you again, and so thoughtful of you
to send me those postcards."

If she had asked him di