“But Lily is a bit stand-offish,” said Drake. “Of course I never could stand very fair girls, myself. I say, talking of girls, there’s a girl in Sherringham Road, well—she’s an actress’s French maid, as a matter of fact, but, my gad, if you like cayenne, you ought to come along with me, and I’ll introduce you. She’ll be alone now. Are you on?” “Oh, thanks very much,” said Michael. “But I must get back. Good-night, Drake.” “Well, you’re a nice chap to ask a fellow to come out. Come on, don’t be an ass. Her name’s Marie.” “I don’t care if her name’s Marie or Mabel or what it is,” Michael declared in exasperation. “I’m sorry. I’ve got to go home. Thanks for coming out.” He turned abruptly and walked off, leaving Drake to apostrophize his eccentricity and seek consolation with Marie. On Sunday afternoon Michael, torn between a desire to arrive before the crowd of artists and actors who thronged the house and an unwillingness to obtrude upon the Sabbath lethargy of half-past three o’clock, set out with beating heart to invade Lily’s home. Love made him reckless and luck rewarded him, for when he enquired for Mrs. Haden the maid told him that only Miss Lily was in. “Who shall I say?” she asked. “Mr. Fane.” “Step this way, please. Miss Lily’s down in the morning-room.” And this so brief and so bald a colloquy danced in letters of fire across the darkling descent of the enclosed stairs down to the ground-floor. “Someone to see you, Miss Lily.” Not Iris could have delivered a richer message. Deep in a wicker chair by a dull red fire sat Lily with open book upon her delicate dress of lavender. The door closed; the daylight of the grey October afternoon seemed already to have fled this room. Dusky in a corner stood a great dolls’ house, somewhat sad like a real house that has been left long untenanted. “Well, now we’re alone enough,” murmured Lily. He knelt beside her chair and let his head fall upon her silken shoulder. “I’m glad you’re in your own room,” Michael sighed in answer. Outside, a muffin-man went ringing through the sombre Sabbath chill; and sometimes, disturbing the monotonous railings above the area, absurd legs were seen hurrying to their social tasks. No other sign was given of a life that went on unaware of these two on whom time showered twenty golden minutes. “Mother and Doris will be back at four,” Lily said. “Is my face flushed?” Fresh carnations would have seemed faded near her, when she looked at Michael for an answer. “Only very slightly,” he reassured her. “Come up to the drawing-room,” she commanded. “Can I look at your dolls’ house?” Michael asked. “That old thing,” said Lily scornfully. Reverently he pulled aside the front of the battered dwelling-place, and saw the minute furniture higgledy-piggledy.