thinking about what you're going to write, arranging, observing, etc.?"
"Yes, I like that awfully."
"Well, here's a secret. No writer does like writing, at least not one in a hundred, and the exception, ten to one, is a howling mediocrity. That's a fact. But all the same they're miserable if they don't write."
"I'm glad; there's hope."
When Richard had finished his coffee, it occurred to him to mention Miss Roberts.
"Do you ever go to the Crabtree?" he asked.
"Not of late."
"I only ask because there's a girl there who knows you. She inquired of me how you were not long since."
"A girl who knows me? Who the devil may she be?"
"I fancy her name's Roberts."
"Aha! So she's got a new place, has she? She lives in my street. That's how I know her. Nice little thing, rather!"
He made no further remark on the subject, but there remained an absent, amused smile on his face, and he pulled at his lower lip and fastened his gaze on the table.
"You must come down sometime, and see me; my niece keeps house for me," he said before they separated, giving an address in Fulham. He wrung Richard's hand, patted him on the shoulder, winking boyishly, and went off whistling to himself very quietly in the upper register.
Chapter X
The slender, badly hung gate closed of itself behind him with a resounding clang, communicating a little thrill to the ground.
In answer to his ring a girl came to the door. She was rather short, thin, and dressed in black, with a clean white apron. In the half light of the narrow lobby he made out a mahogany hat-rack of conventional shape, and on a wooden bracket a small lamp with a tarnished reflector.
"No," Richard heard in a quiet, tranquil voice, "Mr. Aked has just gone out for a walk. He didn't say what time he should be back. Can I give him any message?"
"He sent me a card to come down and see him this afternoon, and—I've come. He said about seven o'clock. It's a quarter past now. But perhaps he forgot all about it."
"Will you step inside? He may only be away for a minute or two."
"No, thanks. If you'll just tell him I've called—"
"I'm so sorry—" The girl raised her hand and rested it against the jamb of the doorway; her eyes were set slantwise on the strip of garden, and she seemed to muse an instant.
"Are you Mr. Larch?" she asked hesitatingly, just as Richard was saying good-day.
"Yes," answered Richard.
"Uncle was telling me he had had dinner with you. I'm sure he'll be back soon. Won't you wait a little while?"
"Well—"
She stood aside, and Richard passed into the lobby.
The front room, into which he was ushered, was full of dim shadows, attributable to the multiplicity of curtains which obscured the small bay window. Carteret Street and the half-dozen florid, tawny, tree-lined avenues that run parallel to it contain hundreds of living rooms almost precisely similar. Its dimensions were thirteen feet by eleven, and the height of the ceiling appeared to bring the walls, which were papered in an undecipherable pattern of blue, even closer together than they really were. Linoleum with a few rugs served for a carpet. The fireplace was of painted stone, and a fancy screen of South African grasses hid the grate. Behind a clock and some vases on the mantelpiece rose a confection of walnut and silvered glass. A mahogany chiffonier filled the side of the room farthest from the window; it had a marble top and a large mirror framed in scroll work, and was littered with salt-cellars, fruit plates, and silver nicknacks. The table, a square one, was covered by a red cloth of flannel-like texture patterned in black. The chairs were of mahogany and horsehair, and matched the sofa, which stretched from the door nearly to the window. Several prints framed in gilt and oak depended by means of stout green cord from French nails with great earthenware heads. In the recess to the left of the hearth stood a piano, open, and a song on the music-stand. What distinguished the room from others of its type was a dwarf bookcase filled chiefly with French novels whose vivid yellow gratefully lightened a dark corner next the door.
"Uncle is very forgetful," the girl began. There was some sewing on the table, and she had already taken it up. Richard felt shy and ill at ease, but his companion showed no symptom of discomposure. He smiled vaguely, not knowing what to reply.
"I suppose he walks a good deal," he said at length.
"Yes, he does." There was a second pause. The girl continued to sew quietly; she appeared to be indifferent whether they conversed or not.
"I see you are a musician."
"Oh, no!" She laughed, and looked at his eyes. "I sing a very little bit."
"Do you sing Schubert's songs?"
"Schubert's? No. Are they good?"
"Rather. They're the songs."
"Classical, I suppose." Her tone implied that classical songs were outside the region of the practical.
"Yes, of course."
"I don't think I care much for classical music."
"But you should."
"Should I? Why?" She laughed gaily, like a child amused. "Hope Temple's songs are nice, and 'The River of Years,' I'm just learning that. Do you sing?"
"No—I don't really sing. I haven't got a piano at my place—now."
"What a pity! I suppose you know a great deal about music?"
"I wish I did!" said Richard, trying awkwardly not to seem flattered.
A third pause.
"Mr. Aked seems to have a fine lot of French novels. I wish I had as many."
"Yes. He's always bringing them in."
"And this is the latest, eh?" He picked up "L'Abbé Tigrane," which lay on the table by the sewing.
"Yes, I fancy uncle got that last night."
"You read French, of course?"
"I! No, indeed!" Again she laughed. "You mustn't imagine, Mr. Larch," she went on, and her small eyes twinkled, "that I am at all like uncle. I'm not. I've only kept house for him a little while, and we are really—quite different."
"How do you mean, 'like uncle'?"
"Well," the quiet voice was imperceptibly raised, "I'm not a great reader, and I know nothing of books. I'm not clever, you know. I can't bear poetry."
Richard
