“Well, what is it that he wants?”

“He talks of the chimney.  It appears this morning there was a chimney on fire.  But since we burn only anthracite and gas—­He knows madame’s name.”

There was a pause.  Christine asked sharply and mysteriously: 

“How much do you think?”

“If madame gave five pounds—­having regard to the chic of the quarter.”

Christine rushed into the bedroom and came back with a five-pound note.

“Here!  Chuck that at him—­politely.  Tell him we are very sorry.”

“Yes, madame.”

“But he’ll never take it.  You can’t treat the London police like that!” G.J. could not help expostulating as soon as Marthe had gone.  He feared some trouble.

“My poor friend!” Christine replied patronisingly.  “Thou art not up in these things.  Marthe knows her affair—­a woman very experienced in London.  He will take it, thy policeman.  And if I do not deceive myself no more chimneys will burn for about a year....  Ah!  The police do not wipe their noses with broken bottles!” (She meant that the police knew their way about.) “I no more than they, I do not wipe my nose with broken bottles.”

She was moved, indignant, stoutly defensive.  G.J. grew self-conscious.  Moreover, her slang disturbed him.  It was the first slang he had heard her use, and in using it her voice had roughened.  But he remembered that Concepcion also used slang—­and advanced slang—­upon occasion.

The booming ceased; a door closed.  Marthe returned once more.

“Well?”

“He is gone.  He was very nice, madame.  I told him about madame—­that madame was very discreet.”  Marthe finished in a murmur.

“So much the better.  Now, help me to dress.  Quick, quick!  Monsieur will be impatient.”

G.J. was ashamed of the innocence he had displayed, and ashamed, too, of the whole Metropolitan Police Force, admirable though it was in stopping traffic for a perambulator to cross the road.  Five pounds!  These ladies were bled.  Five pounds wanted earning....  It was a good sign, though, that she had not so far asked him to contribute.  And he felt sure that she would not.

“Come in, then, poltroon!” She cooed softly and encouragingly from the bedroom, where Marthe was busy with her.

The door between the bedroom and the drawing-room was open.  G.J., humming, obeyed the invitation and sat down on the bed between two heaps of clothes.  Christine was very gay; she was like a child.  She had apparently quite forgotten her migraine and also the incident of the policeman.  She snatched the cigarette from G.J.’s mouth, took a puff, and put it back again.  Then she sat in front of the large mirror and did her hair while Marthe buttoned her boots.  Her corset fitted beautifully, and as she raised her arms above her head under the shaded lamp G.J. could study the marvellous articulation of the arms at the bare shoulders.  The close atmosphere