Michael was a lazy man, who bristled with business instincts. He telephoned to the nearest "typewriters' association" for a secretary, and to this young woman he committed the charge of answering the letters which his advertisement had drawn forth. The answer was to be the same to all: "Call at 17 Hare Court, Temple, between 11 and 1." And the dates fixed for such calling were arranged to allow about fifty interviews daily for the next week or two, for Michael was a bold man as well as a lazy one. The next morning, faultlessly dressed, with carnations in his buttonhole, he composed himself in his pleasant oak-furnished room to await his first batch of callers. They came. And Michael, strong in his unswerving determination not to forfeit his chance of inheriting the L15,000 a year left him under his mad uncle's mad will, saw them all, one after the other. But he did not like any of them. They were old; that he did not mind--it was, indeed, of the essence of the contract. But they were frowsy, too, with reticules of scarred brownish leather, and mangy fur trimmings, worn fringes, and beaded mantles, whence time and poverty had clawed handfuls of the bright beads. Each of them was, as a wife, even as a wife in name, impossible. The task of rejection was softened to his hand by the fact that not one of them could boast the necessary hundred a year in Consols. The interviews over, Michael, his spirit crushed by the spectacle of so many women anxious to find a refuge at an age when their children and grandchildren should, in their own homes, have been rising up to call them blessed, went to lounge a restorative hour in Sylvia's bright little studio, and laugh with her over his dilemma. He would have liked to sigh with her, too, but the pathos of the homeless old women escaped her. She saw only the humour of the situation. "There's no harm done, if it amuses you," she said, "but you'll never marry an old woman." "Fifteen thousand pounds a year," said Michael softly. Next day more poor old ladies, all eager, anxious, ineligible. It was on the third day that the old lady in dove-colour came in, sweet as a pressed flower in an old love-letter, dainty as a pigeon in spring. Her white hair, the white lace of her collar, the black lace of her mantle, her beautiful little hands in their perfect, dove-coloured gloves, all appealed irresistibly to Michael's aesthetic sense. "What an ideal housekeeper!" he said to himself, as he placed a chair for her. And then an odd thrill of discomfort and shame shot through him. This delicate, dainty old lady--he was to insult her by a form of marriage, and then to live near her, waiting for her death? No; it was impossible--the whole thing was impossible. He found himself in the middle of a sentence. "And so I fear I am already suited." The old lady raised eyebrows as delicate as Sylvia's own.