It was to make an appointment. He had rallied wonderfully at the end and was confident of recovery. She was to bring her _modiste_ to his room at eleven o'clock the next morning with her patterns, that he might help in choosing her new dress. He had insisted on it--the dress she was to wear on his first outing. "At eleven," he had said. "Mind you don't forget. But then you never forget anything. Good night once more, my sweet." "Good night." She had never seen him again alive. He died before the morning. She put the machine away and looked out of the window. The sun had risen. The sky was on fire with the promise of a beautiful day. Worn out, she fell asleep; to wake--to what? To such awakening as there is for those who never forget anything. * * * * * * * Every night found her bending over the machine. She had learned now when not to listen. She had timed the reproduction absolutely, and, watch in hand, she waited until the other messages were done, and her own voice began. There was no condensing possible; one must either each time have every conversation or stop it. But how could she stop it before the end? Locking the door and drawing the heavy curtain, she would sit down in the far corner and begin to turn. She knew just how fast to turn for others; so slowly for herself. When the watch gave her the signal she would begin to listen. "Is that you? Is that you? But I know it is. How distinctly you speak!" "Yes, it's me"--and the soft vibrant laugh. "How are you, dear?" "Better, I hope." "Have you missed me?" "Missed you!" CHAPTER VI IN WHICH WE MEET THE FIRST-FLOOR-BACK AND FIND THAT THE MILK OF HUMAN KINDNESS STILL RUNS So far I agree with Mrs. Wiles in thinking Mr. Lacey the pick of the house; but my opinion is of less weight than it might be since I have not yet met the others, except in the most casual way, at the front door, when we say how fine it is or how exceedingly probable is rain, and so part. But no London house of apartments could possibly shelter two men as attractive as Mr. Lacey. We came into knowledge of each other by the merest chance. I was returning very late at night, and found, seated on the top step fondling a cat, the first-floor-back. I knew him by sight, of course, owing to the organ-grinder scena, but we had not spoken. "I'm glad you've come," he said; "I've been here for nearly an hour, and the bell's broken and I've left my latch-key somewhere. I was banking on the chance of one of the others coming in late." I let him in and he bade farewell to his companion. "Poor thing," he said, "she's so miserable. She's just going to have kittens. It's a hard world for women."