“I see you have ‘engaged’ on the door,” she said cheerfully, “but I must come in for a moment to tell you something. It’s very bad for you to sit writing like this, you should be out in the sun. We don’t get much sunshine as a rule at this time of the year.” She shut the door, walked over to the sofa, and lowered her voice. “I’ve let the hall flat,” she said. “I had to come and tell you.” “But you let it yesterday?” “I know ... but”--she rustled with excitement--“but I am writing at once to put those people off. On second consideration, it is most unsuitable. They are so young and only just married, later on it might mean a baby, and I have to consider my other tenants, you and your husband, for instance. You remember I asked you before I took that musical man upstairs. There’s a great art in making a household run on oiled wheels.” “You’re pleased with the people coming to-day, then?” She hesitated, and then she said, “I must tell you. I trust you. I know you won’t talk.” She must have thought I looked puzzled, for she went on nervously, “I’ve let the hall flat to Mrs. Fitzgerald.” She paused to see the effect of her words. “Mrs. Desmond Fitzgerald. Her husband is Minister of Propaganda. Now I feel that I’ve done something for Ireland! No one will take her, they are so afraid of raids; but I made up my mind at once.” “Mr. Darrel Figgis has made this place rather popular with the Black-and-Tans. Is it wise from Mrs. Fitzgerald’s point of view?” “Of course it is. I met Mr. Figgis only yesterday, and he told me he was sure the house wouldn’t be raided again.” “How on earth can he tell?” “Mr. Figgis has a wonderful brain. I think he’s the brains of the movement myself. Besides, I’m not afraid of the Black-and-Tans. I’m an Irishwoman. Look at the sacrifices Irishwomen have made. Mr. Fitzgerald isn’t going to live here. He’s coming sometimes after dark for meals. Mrs. Fitzgerald and the baby will be here. I don’t want the people upstairs to know who she is. After all, Fitzgerald is a common enough name. They can think she’s a widow.” “There’s a baby. I thought you wouldn’t have a baby?” “But this baby is a grown baby. It’s eleven months old, and its mother says it’s a very good baby, it makes no noise at all.” “Of course, one can only prove that.”