tects sometimes came with
cards of admission to pry into it professionally. The blinds of its
principal windows were down--not because of the war; they were often
down, for at least four other houses disputed with Lechford House the
honour of sheltering the Marquis and his wife and their sole surviving
child. Above the roof a wire platform for the catching of bombs had
given the mansion a somewhat ridiculous appearance, but otherwise
Lechford House managed to look as though it had never heard of the
European War.

One half of the black entrance swung open, and a middle-aged gentleman
dressed like Lord Lechford's stockbroker, but who was in reality his
butler, said in answer to G.J.'s enquiry:

"Lady Queenie is not at home, sir."

"But it is five o'clock," protested G.J., suddenly sick of Queen's
impudent unreliability. "And I have an appointment with her at five."

The butler's face relaxed ever so little from its occupational
inhumanity of a suet pudding; the spirit of compassion seemed to
inform it for an instant.

"Her ladyship went out about a quarter of an hour ago, sir."

"When d'you think she'll be back?"

The suet pudding was restored.

"That I could not say, sir."

"Damn the girl!" said G.J. to himself; and aloud: "Please tell her
ladyship that I've called."

"Mr. Hoape, is it not, sir?"

"It is."

By the force of his raisin eyes the butler held G.J. as he turned to
descend the steps.

"There's nobody at home, sir, except Mrs. Carlos Smith. Mrs. Carlos
Smith is in Lady Queenie's apartments."

"Mrs. Carlos Smith!" exclaimed G.J., who had not seen Concepcion for
some seventeen months; nor heard from her for nearly as long, nor
heard of her since the previous year.

"Yes, sir."

"Ask her if she can see me, will you?" said G.J. impetuously, after a
slight pause.

He stepped on to the tessellated pavement of the outer hall. On the
raised tessellated pavement of the inner hall stood two meditative
youngish footmen, possibly musing upon the problems of the
intensification of the Military Service Act which were then exciting
journalists and statesmen. Beyond was the renowned staircase, which,
rising with insubstantial grace, lost itself in silvery altitude
like the way to heaven. Presently G.J. was mounting the staircase and
passing statues by Canova and Thorwaldsen, and portraits of which
the heads had been painted by Lawrence and the hands and draperies
by Lawrence's hireling, and huger canva