He was afraid he was invariably known as Michael, and Miss Carlyle sighed at the stiff sort of a name it was. “Mine’s Poppy,” she volunteered. “That’s much more free and easy. Or I think so,” she added rather doubtfully, as Michael did not immediately celebrate its license by throwing pillows at her. “Are you really lodging here?” she went on. “You don’t look much like a pro.” Michael said that was so much the better, as he wasn’t one. “I’ve got you at last,” cried Poppy. “You’re a shop-walker at Russell’s.” He could not help laughing very much at this, and the queer pink room seemed to become more faded at the sound of his merriment. Poppy looked offended by the reception of her guess, and Michael hastened to restore her good temper by asking questions of her. “You’re on the stage, aren’t you?” “I usually get into panto,” she admitted. “Aren’t you acting now?” “Yes, I don’t think. You needn’t be funny.” “I wasn’t trying to be funny.” “You mind your business,” she said bitterly. “And I’ll look after mine.” “There doesn’t seem to be anything very rude in asking if you’re acting now,” said Michael. “Oh, shut up! As if you didn’t know.” “Know what?” he repeated. He looked so genuinely puzzled that Poppy seemed to make an effort to overcome her suspicion of his mockery. “It’s five years since I went on the game,” she said. Michael blushed violently, partly on her account, partly for his own stupidity, and explained that Mrs. Murdoch had told him she was in the profession. “Well, you didn’t expect her to say ‘my ground-floor front’s a gay woman,’ did you?” He agreed that such an abrupt characterization would have surprised him. “Well, I’m going out to get dinner now,” she announced. “Why don’t you dine with me?” Michael suggested. She looked at him doubtfully. “Can you afford it?” “I think I could manage it.” “Because if we _are_ in the same house that doesn’t say you’ve got to pay my board, does it?” she demanded proudly. “Once in a way won’t matter,” Michael insisted. “And we might go on to a music hall afterward.” “Yes, we might, if I hadn’t got to pay the woman who’s looking after my kid for some clothes she’s made for him,” said Poppy. “And sitting with you at the Holborn all night won’t do that. No, you can give me dinner and then I’ll P.O. I’m not going to put on a frock even for you, because I never get off only when I’m in a coat and skirt.” Michael rose to leave the room while Poppy got ready. “Go on, sit down. As you’re going to take me out to dinner, you can talk to me while I dress as a reward.” In this faded pink room where the sun was by now shining with a splendor that made all the strewn clothes seem even more fusty and overblown, Michael could not have borne to see a live thing take shape as it were from such corruption. He made an excuse therefore of letters to be written and left Poppy to herself, asking to be called when she was ready.