“Have I? Rather. I’m Polly Pleyden, and as you’ve rescued me from melancholia I’m that much more glad to see you. Was just thinking of laying myself out to see what it would feel like.” Gita’s eyes sparkled with appreciation. “Isn’t it—just? And we can’t talk in a mausoleum. Come up to my room.” “Good! I’ve been walking about to keep myself from freezing to death. Topping old house, though. Not many of them left. Most of the old houses about here were built of wood and have vanished long since. Luckily for me the rats monopolized our old barn before I was born and granny moved out to Chelsea. Not much tradition there but plenty of light and modern furniture. Glory! Do you sleep in that?” They had entered Gita’s bedroom. Large as it was a four-poster seemed to take up fully a third of it, and highboys, chests, an immense wardrobe, heavy chairs and sofas, covered with horsehair, left little space for movement. The windows looked out into the wood. Gita had jerked off the bed-hangings on the night of her arrival. “Well,” pursued the irreverent Miss Pleyden, “if you ever get hard up you can sell this old junk. There are imbeciles that will pay any price for mahogany and black old oak. I’d pass out if I had to sleep in this room.” “I only do sleep in it! Take this chair. I’ve tried them all and it’s not quite as hard as the others. Have one of mine?” “Thanks. I prefer Happy Stars. Debased taste. One of the fell results of the war. Jolly old war. Did _us_ a good turn.” Both girls smoked in silence for a moment, secretly appraising each other. Miss Pleyden wriggled until she made herself comfortable and Gita seated herself on the one unbroken spring of a sofa. “Going to stay with us long?” asked Polly. “I hope so. I must give you a party and have you meet our crowd. We do our little best to amuse ourselves.” “You look as if you amused yourself,” said Gita, smiling. “But I can’t go anywhere at present. My grandmother won’t live much longer, I’m afraid, and I must remain on tap.”