Fanny Cronin looked rather vague. She was really trying to think what dog was quite the contrary of a poodle, but, after the Channel, her mind was unequal to the effort. So she took another sip of the camomile tea and said: “What colour was it?” “It was all brown like a brown bronze. Well, good night, Fanny.” “Good night, dear. I really wish you would read ‘_Mensonges_’ again when I have finished with it. One cannot read over these masterpieces too often.” “You shall lend it me.” She went out of the room, and Fanny Cronin settled comfortably down once more to the competent exercise of her profession. It was now nearly eight o’clock. Miss Van Tuyn went to her bedroom. She had a maid with her, but she did not ring for the woman. Instead she shut her door, and began to “do” things for herself. She began by taking off her gown and putting on a loose wrapper. Then she sat down before the dressing-table and changed the way in which her corn-coloured hair was done, making it sit much closer to the head than before, and look much less striking and conspicuous. The new way of doing her hair changed her appearance considerably, made her less like a Ceres and more like a Puritan. When she was quite satisfied with her hair she got out of her wrapper, and presently put on an absolutely plain black coat and skirt, a black hat which came down very low on her forehead, a black veil and black suede gloves. Then she took a tightly furled umbrella with an ebony handle out of her wardrobe, picked up her purse, unlocked her door and stepped out into the lobby. Her French maid appeared from somewhere. She was a rather elderly woman with a clever, but not unpleasantly subtle, face. Miss Van Tuyn said a few words to her in a low voice, opened the lobby door and went out. She took the lift, glided down, walked slowly and carelessly across the hall and passed out by the swing door. “A taxi, madam?” said the commissionaire in livery. She shook her head and walked away down Brook Street in the direction of Grosvenor Square.