No voice replied, but the window was shut down, and almost directly, through some glass above the hall-door, I saw a bright light start up, and I heard a faint movement within. Then the door was opened and Vernon stood before me. He looked greatly surprised. “You?” he said. “How on earth did you know I was here?” “I didn’t know it. Can I come in?” “Yes. Why not?” But he still stood in the doorway, blocking up the entrance. “You’re alone?” he asked, rather suspiciously. “Quite alone.” “Come in.” I stepped into a hideous passage, and he at once shut the door. “Well?” he said. Not only his voice, but his attitude questioned me. “I went to Claridge’s. They told me you were out, so I came on here on the chance that you might be looking over your new abode.” “So Deeming’s been with you!” “Yes, he came in for a minute, and mentioned casually that you had taken this house.” “Oh! he mentioned it casually, did he? Well, come and have a look at it, won’t you?” “If you don’t mind.” He spoke with constraint, and so did I. Indeed, I had never before felt so uncomfortable with Vernon as I did at this moment. I did not know exactly what I had expected of him if I found him at the house; but it certainly was not this cold reserve, as of one who scarcely knew me, and to whom my appearance was unwelcome. “It’s not a bad house,” he said, as we went towards the stairs. “It will do very well for me for the season.” “You’re in luck, then.” The words faltered on my lips even while I strove to speak carelessly, for, in truth, knowing Vernon as I did, knowing his house in Rome, it was almost impossible not to express my amazement at his choice—or, no, perhaps not that, for I could no longer be in any doubt as to why he had rented Number 301—but it was almost impossible to keep up the ridiculous pretence, forced upon me by his words and manner, that I thought he had rented Number 301 because it had seemed to him a suitable London home. A more dreadful house I have seldom seen. The stamp of bad taste, of pretentious middleclass vulgarity, was upon it, showing in every detail, in the colouring of walls, in the patterns of carpets, in the shapes of the furniture, in the tiles of the hearths, in the very balusters and fire-irons. The mirrors were painted with bulrushes, poppies, tulips. Cushions of brown and sulphur-coloured plush lay upon settees that imitated shells. Chocolate-hued portières hung across double doors, upon which were views of Swiss lakes and Alpine heights. There were ceilings that represented the starry firmament, and there were floors that suggested the vegetable-monger’s shop. In “cosy corners,” thick with dusty draperies, nestled imitation beetles and frogs, among Japanese fans and squads of photographs of possibly well-known actresses, roofed in by open umbrellas of paper, from whose spokes hung gilded balls.