e bald humanity of his affections for them joined forces for a moment
with the simple greatness of his new capacity. Dimly he realized that
somewhere behind all these things lurked a truth greater than any he had
as yet found. Then, with an almost incredible swiftness, this new
emotion began to fade away. His brain began to work, his new
fastidiousness asserted itself. A wave of cheap perfume assailed his
nostrils. The untidy pretentiousness of her ill-chosen clothes, the
unreality of her manner and carriage, the sheer vulgarity of her choice
of words and phrases--these things seized him as a nightmare. Like a
man who rushes to a cafe for a drink in a moment of exhaustion, he
hastened along towards the National Gallery. His nerves were all
quivering. An opalescent light in the sky above Charing Cross soothed
him for a moment. A glimpse into a famous art shop was like a cool
draught of water. Then, as he walked along in more leisurely fashion,
the great idea came to him. He stopped short upon the pavement. Here
was the solution to all his troubles: a bean for Ellen; another, or
perhaps half of one, for little Alfred! He could not go back to their
world; he would bring them into his!

CHAPTER VII

THE TRUTHFUL AUCTIONEER

At a little before ten on the following morning, Burton stood upon the
pavement outside, looking with some amazement at the house in Wenslow
Square. The notices "To Let" had all been torn down. A small army of
paper-hangers and white-washers were at work. A man was busy fastening
flower boxes in the lower windows. On all hands were suggestions of
impending occupation. Burton mounted the steps doubtfully and stood in
the hall, underneath a whitewasher's plank. The door of the familiar
little room stood open before him. He peered eagerly in. It was swept
bare and completely empty. All traces of its former mysterious occupant
were gone.

"Is this house let?" he inquired of a man who was deliberately stirring
a pail of shiny whitewash.

The plasterer nodded.

"Seems so," he admitted. "It's been empty long enough."

Burton looked around him a little vaguely.

"You all seem very busy," he remarked.

"Some bloke from the country's taken the 'ouse," the man grumbled, "and
wants to move in before the blooming paint's dry. Nobody can't do
impossibilities, mister," he continued, "leaving out the Unions, which
can't bear to see us over-exert ourselves. They've always got a
particular eye on me, knowi