“I never laid claims to being a mathematician,” said the sleek man, smiling as though to applaud himself, “but I have always calculated that ...” he hesitated ... “_enfin, que ma demeure se trouve, en effet_, on the second floor. Lypiatt will bear me out, I’m sure.” He turned to the thin man, who had not moved from the fireplace, but had stood all the time motionlessly, his elbow on the mantelpiece, looking gloomily at the ground. Lypiatt looked up. “I must be going,” he said abruptly. And he walked towards the door. Like vermouth posters, like vermouth posters!—so that was Myra’s piece of mockery! All his anger had sunk like a quenched flame. He was altogether quenched, put out with unhappiness. Politely Mr. Mercaptan hurried across the room and opened the door for him. “_Good_-bye, then,” he said airily. Lypiatt did not speak, but walked out into the hall. The front door banged behind him. “Well, _well_,” said Mr. Mercaptan, coming back across the room to where Rosie was still irresolutely standing. “Talk about the _furor poeticus_! But _do_ sit down, I beg you. On Crébillon.” He indicated the vast white satin sofa. “I call it Crébillon,” he explained, “because the soul of that great writer undoubtedly tenants it, _undoubtedly_. You know his book, of course? You know _Le Sopha_?” Sinking into Crébillon’s soft lap, Rosie had to admit that she didn’t know _Le Sopha_. She had begun to recover her self-possession. If this wasn’t _the_ young poet, it was certainly _a_ young poet. And a very peculiar one, too. As a great lady she laughingly accepted the odd situation. “Not know _Le Sopha_?” exclaimed Mr. Mercaptan. “Oh! but, my dear and mysterious young lady, let me lend you a copy of it at once. _No_ education can be called _complete_ without a knowledge of that divine book.” He darted to the bookshelf and came back with a small volume bound in white vellum. “The hero’s soul,” he explained, handing her the volume, “passes, by the laws of metempsychosis, into a sofa. He is doomed to remain a sofa until such time as two persons consummate upon his bosom their reciprocal and equal loves. The book is the record of the poor sofa’s hopes and disappointments.” “Dear me!” said Rosie, looking at the title-page. “But now,” said Mr. Mercaptan, sitting down beside her on the edge of Crébillon, “won’t you please explain? To what happy quiproquo do I owe this sudden and altogether delightful invasion of my privacy?” “Well,” said Rosie, and hesitated. It was really rather difficult to explain. “I was to meet a friend of mine.” “Quite so,” said Mr. Mercaptan encouragingly. “Who sent me a telegram,” Rosie went on. “He sent you a telegram!” Mr. Mercaptan echoed. “Changing the—the place we had fixed and telling me to meet him at this address.” “Here?” Rose nodded. “On the s—second floor,” she made it more precise. “But _I_ live on the second floor,” said Mr. Mercaptan. “You don’t mean to say your friend is also called Mercaptan and lives here too?”