h was small and smelt very damp.
The ceiling sloped to a window closely curtained with the cretonne of
black and crimson fruits which Michael recognized as the same stuff he
had seen in Barnes' room above. He tried to recall how much of this room
he could see from his bedroom window, and he connected it in his mind
with a projecting roof of cracked slates which he had often noticed. The
action of the rain on the plaster had made it look like a map of the
moon in relief. The furniture consisted of a bed, a washstand and a
light blue chest. There was also a narrow shelf on which was a lamp with
a reflector of corrugated tin, a bald powder-puff, and two boot-buttons.
The woman lit the lamp, and as she stooped to look at the jagged flame,
Michael saw that her hair was as iridescent as oil on a canal with what
remained of henna and peroxide.

"That's more cheerful. Though I must say it's a pity they haven't put
the gas in here. Oh, don't sit on that old box. It makes you look such a
stranger."

Michael said he had a great fondness for sitting on something that was
hard; but he thought how absurd he must appear sitting like this on a
pale blue chest next to a washstand.

"Are you looking at my cat?" she asked.

"What cat?"

"He's under the bed, I'll be bound."

She called, and a small black cat came out.

"Isn't he lovely? But, fancy, he's afraid of me. He always gets under
the bed like that."

Michael felt he ought to make up to the cat what his cordiality had
lacked toward the mistress, and he paid so much attention to it that
finally the animal lost all fear and jumped on his knee.

"Well, there!" the woman exclaimed. "Did you ever? I've never seen him
do that before. He knows you're a gentleman. Oh, yes, they know. His
mother ran away. But she comes to see me sometimes and always looks very
well, so she's got a good home. But _he_ isn't stinted. Oh, no. He gets
his milk every day. What I say is, if you're going to have animals, look
after them."

Michael nodded agreement.

"Because to my mind," she went on, "a great many animals are better than
human beings."

"Oh, yes, I think they probably are," said Michael.

"Poor Peter!" she crooned. "I wouldn't starve you, would I?"

The cat left Michael and went and sat beside her on the bed.

"Why do you call it Peter?" he asked. The name savored rather of the
deliberate novelist.

"After my boy."

"Your boy?" he echoed.

"Oh, he's a fine boy, and a good b