ng such delightfully
hideous things in Georgian, caused, among her friends, a good deal of
comment. Her explanation that medicine was a medieval profession and
that she had to have a medieval house to go with James, was felt to be a
mere evasion.

It was recognized that one had to flirt with Bertie while he was
building her house. And in the days when everybody else had been doing
it, too, it didn't matter. But now that the celebrated _hareem_ had
ceased to exist, it was felt that one would do well to be a little
careful; at least, to put a more or less summary end to the flirtation
when the house was finished. But Eleanor hadn't done that. She was
playing with him more exclusively than ever.

Rodney hadn't been in the house before, and he reflected, as he stood at
the door, after ringing the bell, that his own house was quite meek and
conventional alongside this. The grin that this consideration afforded
him, was still on his lips when, a servant having opened the door, he
found himself face to face with the architect.

Bertie, top-coated and hat in hand, was waiting for Eleanor, who was
coming down the stairs followed by a maid with her carriage coat. He
returned Rodney's nod pretty stiffly, as was natural enough, since
Rodney's grin had distinctly brightened up at sight of him.

Eleanor said, rather negligently, "Hello, Rod. We're just dashing off to
the Palace to see a perfectly exquisite little dancer Bertie's
discovered down there. She comes on at half past nine, so we've got to
fly. Want to come?"

"No," Rodney said. "I came over to see Jim. Is he at home?"

The maid was holding out the coat for Eleanor's arms, Bertie was fussing
around ineffectually, hooking his stick over his left arm to give him a
free right hand to do something with, he didn't quite know what. But
Eleanor, at Rodney's question, just stood for a second quite still. She
wasn't looking at anybody, but the expression in her eyes was sullen.

"Yes, he's at home," she said at last.

"Busy, I suppose;" said Rodney. Her inflection had dictated this reply.

"Yes, he's busy," she repeated absently and in a tone still more coldly
hostile, though Rodney perceived that the hostility was not meant for
him. And so plainly did the tone and the look and the arrested attitude
proclaim that she was following out a train of thought and hadn't as yet
got to the end of it, that he stood as still as she was.

Bertie, irreproachably correct as always, set