Granthope had fitted up the room next beyond his studio for a bed-chamber and sitting-room, access to it being had through the heavy velvet arras concealing the door between the two apartments. The place was severely masculine in its appointments and order, but bespoke the tasteful employment of considerable money. Here he had his library also, for since his earliest youth he had been a great reader. Prominent on its shelves were many volumes of medical books, and, to offset this sobriety, the lives and memoirs of the famous adventurers of history—Casanova, Cagliostro, Fenestre, Abbé Faublas, Benvenuto Cellini, Salvator Rosa, Chevalier d’Eon. A massive Jewish seven-branch candlestick illuminated the place this evening, splashing with yellow lights the carved gilded frame of a huge oval mirror, glowing on the belly of a bronze vase, enriching the depths of color in the dull green walls, smoldering in the warm tones of the great Persian rug on the floor, twinkling upon the polished surface of the heavy mahogany table in the center of the room. But it was concentrated chiefly upon the gorgeous oriental hues where his Chinese costume was flung, flaming upon the couch. There the colors were commingled as on an artist’s palette, cold steel blue, pale lemon yellow, olive green that was nearly old gold, lavender that was almost pink in the candle-light, a circle of red inside the cap, and flashes of pale cream-colored bamboo paper here and there. He had already put on the silken undersuit, a costume in itself, with its straight-falling lines and complementary colors. Fancy Gray was helping him with the other garments, enjoying it as much as a little girl dressing a doll, trying on each article herself first and posing in it before the mirror. First, she wrapped the bottom of his lavender trousers about his ankles, over white cotton socks, tying them close with the silk bands, carefully concealing the knot and ends as Go Ball had instructed him. She held the black boat-shaped satin shoes for him to put on. Next she tied about his waist the pale yellow sash so that both ends met at the side and hung together in two striped party-colored ends. Then the short, padded jacket, and over all this the long, steel-blue, brocaded silk robe, caught in at the waist with a corded belt. Lastly the olive-green coat patterned with brocaded mons containing the swastika, and with long sleeves almost hiding the tips of his fingers. Upon its gold bullet-shaped buttons she hung the tasseled spectacle-case and his ivory snuff-box. "Oh, Frank, I forgot!" said Fancy, as she paused with his wig of horse-hair eked out with braided silk threads, in her hand. "Lucie was here to-day." Granthope was at the mirror, disguising himself with a long, drooping mustache and thin goatee. He put down his bottle of liquid gum and turned to her. "What did she say?" "Why, she said she didn’t have time to wait, and didn’t want to tell me anything." "Why didn’t she write?"