To the side of this bare place, with its canvases which had become rather démodé--or at least had long ceased to interest--lay two bed-chambers: Foster's own, and one adjoining, which was classed as a spare room. It was sometimes given over to visiting luminaries of lesser magnitudes. Real celebrities--those of national or international fame--were entertained in a sumptuous suite on the floor below. Casual young bachelors, who sometimes happened along, were lodged above and were expected to adjust themselves, as regarded the bathroom, to the use and wont of the occupant adjoining. Foster's own room was a cramped omnium gatherum, cluttered with the paraphernalia of daily living. It was somewhat disordered and untidy--the chamber of a man who could never see clearly how things were, or be completely sure just what he was about. "There's Pepys up there," he said, pointing to his bookshelf, as he worked out of his chair and tried to dispose himself comfortably on a couch. "I hope we're going to get along a little farther with him, some time." "As to that, I _have_ been getting along a little farther;--I've been to the Library, looking somewhat ahead in the completer edition. I find that 'Will,' who flung his cloak over his shoulder, 'like a ruffian,' and got his ears boxed for it, was no mere temporary serving-man, but lived on with Pepys for years and became the most intimate and trusted of his friends. And 'Gosnell,' who lasted three days, you remember, as Mrs. Pepys' maid, turns up a year or two later as an actress at 'the Duke's house.' And 'Deb,' that other maid whose name we have noted farther along--well, there's a deal more about her than exactly tends to edification...." "Good. I hope we shall have some more of it pretty soon." "To-day?" "Not exactly to-day. I've got some other things to think about." "Such as?" "Well, I expect you're going to be invited here to dinner pretty soon?" "So? I've been invited here to dinner before this." "But another day has come. A new light has risen. I haven't seen it, but I've heard it. I've heard it sing." "A light singing? Aren't you getting mixed?" "Oh, I don't know. There was Viollet-le-Duc and the rose-window of Notre Dame. They took him there as a child for a choral service, and he thought it was the rose itself that sang. And there was Petrarch, and the young Milton--both talking about 'melodious tears'--and something of the same sort in 'The Blessed Damosel.' And----" "A psychological catch for which there ought to be a name. Perhaps there _is_ a name." "Well, as I say, the light rose, shone, and sang. I didn't see it--I never see anybody. But his voice came up here quite distinctly. It seemed good to have a man in the house. Those everlasting girls--I hope he wasn't bothering to sing for _them_." "He probably was. How did it go?" "Very well indeed." "What kind of voice?" "Oh, baritone, I suppose you'd call it." "And he sang sentimental rubbish?"