“Well, as a matter of _fact_,” said Mr. Mercaptan, peering up from under his defences, “I didn’t invent _that_ particular piece of criticism. I borrowed the _apéritif_.” He laughed feebly, more canary than bull. “You borrowed it, did you?” Lypiatt contemptuously repeated. “And who from, may I ask?” Not that it interested him in the least to know. “Well, if you really _want_ to know,” said Mr. Mercaptan, “it was from our friend Myra Viveash.” Lypiatt stood for a moment without speaking, then putting his menacing hand in his pocket, he turned away. “Oh!” he said noncommittally, and was silent again. Relieved, Mr. Mercaptan sat up in his chair; with the palm of his right hand he smoothed his dishevelled head. Airily, outside in the sunshine, Rosie walked down Sloane Street, looking at the numbers on the doors of the houses. A hundred and ninety-nine, two hundred, two hundred and one—she was getting near now. Perhaps all the people who passed, strolling so easily and elegantly and disengagedly along, perhaps they all of them carried behind their eyes a secret, as delightful and amusing as hers. Rosie liked to think so; it made life more exciting. How nonchalantly distinguished, Rosie reflected, she herself must look. Would any one who saw her now, sauntering along like this, would any one guess that, ten houses farther down the street, a young poet, or at least very nearly a young poet, was waiting, on the second floor, eagerly for her arrival? Of course they wouldn’t and couldn’t guess! That was the fun and the enormous excitement of the whole thing. Formidable in her light-hearted detachment, formidable in the passion which at will she could give rein to and check again, the great lady swam beautifully along through the sunlight to satisfy her caprice. Like Diana, she stooped over the shepherd boy. Eagerly the starving young poet waited, waited in his garret. Two hundred and twelve, two hundred and thirteen. Rosie looked at the entrance and was reminded that the garret couldn’t after all be very sordid, nor the young poet absolutely starving. She stepped in and, standing in the hall, looked at the board with the names. Ground floor: Mrs. Budge. First floor: F. de M. Rowbotham. Second floor: P. Mercaptan. P. Mercaptan.... But it was a charming name, a romantic name, a real young poet’s name! Mercaptan—she felt more than ever pleased with her selection. The fastidious lady could not have had a happier caprice. Mercaptan ... Mercaptan.... She wondered what the P. stood for. Peter, Philip, Patrick, Pendennis even? She could hardly have guessed that Mr. Mercaptan’s father, the eminent bacteriologist, had insisted, thirty-four years ago, on calling his first-born ‘Pasteur.’