r heart
leapt and her throat was dry when he turned away and passed, still
singing, into the room opposite. It is alarming not to be seen.

He had left the door of this room open, and she could see into it,
right across the landing. It was in a shocking mess. Food, bedclothes,
patent-leather boots, dirty plates, and knives lay strewn over a large
table and on the floor. But it was the mess that comes of life, not of
desolation. It was preferable to the charnel-chamber in which she was
standing now, and the light in it was soft and large, as from some
gracious, noble opening.

He stopped singing, and cried "Where is Perfetta?"

His back was turned, and he was lighting a cigar. He was not speaking
to Miss Abbott. He could not even be expecting her. The vista of the
landing and the two open doors made him both remote and significant,
like an actor on the stage, intimate and unapproachable at the same
time. She could no more call out to him than if he was Hamlet.

"You know!" he continued, "but you will not tell me. Exactly like you."
He reclined on the table and blew a fat smoke-ring. "And why won't you
tell me the numbers? I have dreamt of a red hen--that is two hundred and
five, and a friend unexpected--he means eighty-two. But I try for the
Terno this week. So tell me another number."

Miss Abbott did not know of the Tombola. His speech terrified her. She
felt those subtle restrictions which come upon us in fatigue. Had she
slept well she would have greeted him as soon as she saw him. Now it was
impossible. He had got into another world.

She watched his smoke-ring. The air had carried it slowly away from him,
and brought it out intact upon the landing.

"Two hundred and five--eighty-two. In any case I shall put them on Bari,
not on Florence. I cannot tell you why; I have a feeling this week for
Bari." Again she tried to speak. But the ring mesmerized her. It had
become vast and elliptical, and floated in at the reception-room door.

"Ah! you don't care if you get the profits. You won't even say 'Thank
you, Gino.' Say it, or I'll drop hot, red-hot ashes on you. 'Thank you,
Gino--'"

The ring had extended its pale blue coils towards her. She lost
self-control. It enveloped her. As if it was a breath from the pit, she
screamed.

There he was, wanting to know what had frightened her, how she had got
here, why she had never spoken. He made her sit down. He brought her
wine, which she refused. She had not one wor