prevented her from basking in the glow of these chandeliers and lounging on these extraordinary sofas and beholding herself in these terrific mirrors.  Even now he was ashamed to let his servants see her.  Was it altogether nice of him?  Her verdict on him had not the slightest importance—­even for herself.  In kissing other men she generally kissed him—­to cheat her appetite.  She was at his mercy, whatever he was.  He was useful to her and kind to her; he might be the fount of very important future advantages; but he was more than that, he was indispensable to her.  She walked exploringly into the little glittering bedroom.  Beneath the fantastic dome of the bed the sheets were turned down and a suit of pyjamas laid out.  On a Chinese tray on a lacquered table by the bed was a spirit-lamp and kettle, and a box of matches in an embroidered case with one match sticking out ready to be seized and struck.  She gazed, and left the bedroom, saying nothing, and wandered elsewhere.  The stairs were so infinitesimal and dear and delicious that they drew from her a sharp exclamation of delight.  She ran up them like a child.  G.J. turned switches.  In the little glittering dining-room a little cold repast was laid for two on an inlaid table covered with a sheet of glass.  Christine gazed, saying nothing, and wandered again to the drawing-room floor, while G.J. hovered attendant.  She went to the vast Regency desk, idly fingering papers, and laid hold of a document.  It was his report on the accountacy of the Lechford Hospitals in France.  She scrutinised it carefully, murmuring sentences from it aloud in her French accent.  At length she dropped it; she did not put it down, she dropped it, and murmured: 

“All that—­what good does it do to wounded men?...  True, I comprehend nothing of it—­I!”

Then she sat to the piano, whose gorgeous and fantastic case might well have intimidated even a professional musician.

“Dare I?” She took off her gloves.

As she began to play her best waltz she looked round at G.J. and said: 

“I adore thy staircase.”

And that was all she did say about the flat.  Still, her demeanour, mystifying as it might be, was benign, benevolent, with a remarkable appearance of genuine humility.

G.J., while she played, discreetly picked up the telephone and got the Marlborough Club.  He spoke low, so as not to disturb the waltz, which Christine in her nervousness was stumbling over.

“I want to speak to Mr. Montague Ryper.  Yes, yes; he is in the club.  I spoke to him about an hour ago, and he is waiting for me to ring him up....  That you, Monty?  Well, dear heart, I find I shan’t be able to come to-night after all.  I should like to awfully, but I’ve got these things I absolutely must finish....  You understand....  No, no....  Is she, by Jove?  By-bye, old thing.”

When Christine had pettishly banged the last chord of the coda, he came close to her and said, with an appreciative smile, in English: