tiful raiment, and coming home
by daylight.

And he gave suppers too, but they were less noisy than the Captain's had
been, and the women who came to them were much more beautiful, and their
voices when they spoke were sweet and low. Sometimes one of the women
sang, and the men sat in silence while the people in the street below
stopped to listen, and would say, "Why, that is So-and-So singing," and
the Lion and the Unicorn wondered how they could know who it was when
they could not see her.

The lodger's visitors came to see him at all hours. They seemed to
regard his rooms as a club, where they could always come for a bite to
eat or to write notes; and others treated it like a lawyer's office and
asked advice on all manner of strange subjects. Sometimes the visitor
wanted to know whether the American thought she ought to take L10 a
week and go on tour, or stay in town and try to live on L8; or whether
she should paint landscapes that would not sell, or racehorses that
would; or whether Reggie really loved her and whether she really loved
Reggie; or whether the new part in the piece at the Court was better
than the old part at Terry's, and wasn't she getting too old to play
"ingenues" anyway.

The lodger seemed to be a general adviser, and smoked and listened
with grave consideration, and the Unicorn thought his judgment was most
sympathetic and sensible.

Of all the beautiful ladies who came to call on the lodger the one the
Unicorn liked the best was the one who wanted to know whether she loved
Reggie and whether Reggie loved her. She discussed this so interestingly
while she consumed tea and thin slices of bread that the Unicorn almost
lost his balance in leaning forward to listen. Her name was Marion
Cavendish and it was written over many photographs which stood in silver
frames in the lodger's rooms. She used to make the tea herself, while
the lodger sat and smoked; and she had a fascinating way of doubling the
thin slices of bread into long strips and nibbling at them like a mouse
at a piece of cheese. She had wonderful little teeth and Cupid's-bow
lips, and she had a fashion of lifting her veil only high enough for one
to see the two Cupid-bow lips. When she did that the American used to
laugh, at nothing apparently, and say, "Oh, I guess Reggie loves you
well enough."

"But do I love Reggie?" she would ask sadly, with her tea-cup held
poised in air.

"I am sure I hope not," the lodger would reply, and s