Every night it was the same. Once she hinted that it was time to invade that literary circle of his, but he passionately flouted the idea. He must keep her to himself awhile, for all too soon the clamouring world would claim her. This made Matilda prey to conflicting emotions. She wanted above everything to feel the world under her feet, but the only way of getting it there seemed to be via somebody’s arms--somebody whose head was above the horizon. Ah, yes, she would marry Eugene when he asked her and then slip from one pair of arms to another until.... And so it was that they strolled every night by poetic water, and when she wearied of the interminable contacts that got nowhere he would lure her back by a quotation. It was two o’clock in the morning, Eugene had preceded her up the damp stairs. Matilda had taken off her shoes so that she could steal up in noiseless security. Just as she was turning to tiptoe down to her room, she felt a soft plump hand on her shoulder. She turned sharply, suppressing a scream. It was Flora Campbell in a sky-blue kimono latticed with yellow roses. “Come into my room,” she hissed, the gold in her teeth gleaming. Matilda mutely allowed herself to be propelled into a tiny alcove garishly ruffled in pink cretonne and stuffed with bird’s-eye maple. “Sit down, miss,” ordered Flora, shoving a low stool toward her. Mathilda took it heavily, although she had no intention of doing so. Flora remained standing, her two hands ruthlessly crushing the blossoms on her hips. “I ran a decent house until you came, miss,” she accused shrilly. “I’ve had complaints.” “Complaints,” hazarded poor Mathilda, “what are those?” “Do you mean to sit down there and tell me that you can dress yourself up in flashy low-necks and sit in my parlour and make eyes at my best-paying boarder and philander on park benches with him until two in the morning and then pretend you don’t know what I mean when I say I’ve had complaints?” “I don’t,” answered Matilda, her lips trembling childishly. Oh, it was dreadful being pushed into this horrible pink place minus the dignity of shoes and to be hissed at by this awful harpy in a terrible wrapper! “You can’t put over any of that big-eyed innocent stuff on me. I ain’t lived fifty-seven years for nothing. I’ll give you until to-morrow to pack and find a new place.” “Who--who complained about me?” quavered Matilda. “Everybody,” replied Flora cryptically. “There’s that sweet little Enid Kelsey. What kind of an example are you for her, I’d like to know? And Miss Slattery can’t bear the sight of that red dress and she’s been with me five years.” “But,” objected Matilda faintly, “there’s Mr. Walter. He was out, too.” “He’s a man. I never interfere with what they do. Besides, he was friendly with that Kelsey kid and going to bed at ten until you came along. Why should I turn him out?” Why, indeed? Matilda rose. “Good-night,” she said succinctly and opened the door.