were thoroughly enjoyed at “Monte Carlo.”  In the same way “Monte Carlo” overheard various interesting items of news, some sharp quarrels and, once or twice, unpleasant personal truths!  On the last occasion, the remark was so unfriendly (it dealt with Cossie’s methods) that when “Chatsworth,” ignorant of offence, sent the same evening an emissary to borrow three pints of stout, the reply was a harsh refusal!

Within doors space was naturally more contracted, but the click of the opposite gate, the sound of the next door dinner-bell and gramophone remained, as it were, common property!  The tiny hall was choked with umbrellas, wraps, tennis shoes, and tattered sixpenny books; the drawing-room, with its pink casement curtains, gaudy cretonne covers, huge signed photographs, jars of dusty artificial bowers, packs of dingy cards, and scraps of millinery, looked “lived in”—­but tawdry and untidy.  The big Chesterfield sofa—­a wonderful bargain—­had broken springs (perhaps it was not such a wonderful bargain?) and many hills and hollows.  In the roomiest of these last the mistress of the house was more or less a fixture, and the whole apartment, like a passee beauty, was to be seen at its best by candle-light.

The dining-room was chiefly notable for the heavy atmosphere of tobacco, and multitudes of empty black bottles under the sideboard.  The kitchen, both in sound and smell, absolutely refused to be ignored.  Such was “Monte Carlo!”

The inmates of “Malahide” have received honourable mention, but nothing has been said of Mrs. Malone, the proprietress, who kept the establishment running, as it were, on well-oiled wheels.  Joyce Malone was an Irishwoman who had met with cruel reverses.  Well born, well educated, and an almost penniless widow, she thankfully accepted the post of housekeeper in a nobleman’s family, and there remained until her savings, and a timely legacy, enabled her to set up for herself.  From the first she had met with success.  Her terms were moderate; butter, eggs and poultry came from her native land; there was no skimping of coals, or hot water; and clients—­who became permanent—­flocked to “Malahide.”  In appearance Mrs. Malone was a tall old woman, with a stoop, who shuffled a little as she walked, and always wore a black gown, a gold Indian chain, and a white lace cap with ribbon bows.  She kept severely aloof from her guests and had her own little lair on the second landing.  It was, she said, “her business to see to domestic matters, and not to gossip or play bridge.”  Nevertheless, she had her favourites:  Mr. Hutton and young Shafto.  (Envy and malice declared that Mrs. Malone had no favourites among her own sex.) She was drawn to the boy by his air of good breeding and admirable manners; also she noticed with secret indignation how shamefully his mother neglected and snubbed him.  She took far more notice of Jimmy Black, or Sandy Larcher, than of her own son.  No doubt she disliked to be so unmistakably dated by his tall, well-grown youth, and her hostess mentally agreed with a gossip who declared that “Mrs. Shafto didn’t care a pin for her boy—­rather the other way, and if she had kept her figure, she could never keep her word, or a secret—­and was a hard, selfish, grasping woman.”