George was becomingly overwhelmed with indignation, though the monotony of the narrator’s delivery, the pleasant atmosphere of the half-darkened room, the window of which was shaded with thick blinds, and the sight of Miss Nouna stretched comfortably in an American well-cushioned chair, waving a palm-leaf lazily to keep the flies off, and looking at him half shyly, half mischievously from behind it through long black eyelashes, all tended to lull him into a drowsy state, in which he half imagined himself to be in some tropical country where passions spring up in a day to a fervour never felt in foggy England, where life flows on without energy or effort, and where woman, instead of being the modest partner of our joys and sorrows, is the passionate, voluptuous and irresponsible source of them. The apartment, though far smaller, more commonplace and less gorgeous than the room which he had seen on his first visit, helped the illusion. Tall narrow glasses from floor to ceiling on each side of the door, reflected a long, two-tiered stand full of large-leaved hothouse plants which ran the whole length of the windowed-wall of the room. Half-a-dozen of these plants were little orange trees, their round yellow fruit giving pretty touches of colour to the dark green mass, while the white blossoms gave forth a faint, sweet perfume. The glass over the mantelpiece was draped with dark tapestry curtains, caught up here and there on each side by palm-leaf and peacock fans, of the kind with which a freak of fashion has lately made us all familiar. The curtains came down to the ground, while the deep valance which hung from the mantelpiece over the empty fireplace was caught up in the middle by a bronze statuette of a Hindoo girl, whose right arm held high above her head a shaded lamp. A pair of black Persian kittens were curled up asleep on a cushion at the feet of the statue. A harp stood in one corner, and a guitar lay on a chair. The rest of the room did not harmonise with these fantastic arrangements. The best had been done to conceal a bilious “high art” carpet by means of handsome rugs, and the table was beautified by an embroidered cover; but the chairs and side-board breathed forth legends of no more interesting locality than the Tottenham Court Road, and the walls were made hideous by an obtrusive and yet melancholy paper. George Lauriston noted all these things, and his curiosity about this queer little household grew more intense. Who was this fascinating young girl? Why was she living in this dingy corner of London with the garrulous middle-aged lady who must evidently find her impulsive charge “a handful”? The buzz of Mrs. Ellis’s tedious monologue began at last to madden him, and he followed the young girl with eager eyes as she slid off her chair and rang the bell.