s only the perfectly accomplished courtesy of Madame
Regnier which saved Michael from summarily making up his mind that these
holidays were going to be a most ghastly failure.

The business of unpacking composed his feelings slightly, and a tap at
his door, followed by Stella's silvery demand to come in, gave him a
thrill of companionship. He suddenly realized, too, that he and his
sister had corresponded frequently during their absence, and that this
queer shyness at meeting her in person was really absurd. Stella,
wandering round the room with his ties on her arm, gave Michael real
pleasure, and she for her part seemed highly delighted at the privilege
of superintending his unpacking.

He noted with a sentimental fondness that she still hummed, and he was
very much impressed by the flowers which she had arranged in the cool
corners of the pleasant room. On her appearance, too, as she hung over
the rail of his bed chatting to him gaily, he congratulated himself. He
liked the big apple-green bows in her chestnut hair; he liked her slim
white hands and large eyes; and he wondered if her smile were like his,
and hoped it was, since it was certainly very subtle and attractive.

"What sort of people hang out in this place?" he asked.

"Oh, nice people," Stella assured him. "Madame Regnier is a darling, and
she loves my playing, and Monsieur is fearfully nice, with a grey beard.
We always play billiards in the evening, and drink cassis. It's lovely.
There are three darling old ladies, widows I think. They sit and listen
to me playing, and when I've finished pay me all sorts of compliments,
which sound so pretty in French. One of them said I was 'ravissante.'"

"Are there any kids?" asked Michael.

Stella said there were no kids, and Michael sighed his relief.

"Do you practise much?"

"Oh, no, I'm having a holiday, I only practise three hours a day."

"How much?" asked Michael. "Good Lord, do you call that a holiday?"

"Why, you silly old thing, of course it is," rippled Stella.

Presently it was time for dejeuner, and they sat down to eat in a room,
of shaded sunlight, watching the green jalousies that glowed like
beryls, and listening to a canary's song. Michael was introduced to
Madame Graves, Madame Lamarque and Madame Charpentier, the three old
widows who lived at the Pension, and who all looked strangely alike,
with their faces and hands of aged ivory and their ruffles and
wristbands starched to the semblanc