It _was_ Weltham Mansions, and there were two flats to be let. The porter produced the keys and led us up, up, endless flights of stairs to a crow's nest near the roof, and then down, down again to what was described as the "sub-basement," which, being interpreted, meant that the level of the rooms was a few feet beneath that of the road. Now I had always set my affections on a basement flat, chiefly--let me confess--because the sound of it appealed to my ears as so suitable and appropriate to my new role. Also, to be able to walk in and out, without mounting the stairs, minimised the risk of discovery, which was no light point under the circumstances, but it was a distinct surprise to find that the flat itself appealed to me more than any which I had yet seen. Why? Not because of the rooms themselves, for they were ordinary and prosaic enough, but because the bank which sloped from the floor of the area to the street railings was of _grass_, closely-growing, well-conditioned grass, broken here and there by tiny, sprouting leaves of--yes! extraordinary as it seems, there could be no doubt about it, for both Bridget and I recognised them in one lightning glance--_primroses_! Some former tenant who loved the country had planted those roots in a hopeful mood, and they had taken hold, and grown, and multiplied. When spring came the owner of that basement flat would have a primrose bank between herself and the world outside those high railings. She had also a strip of cement area in which she could place tubs filled with soil which would provide blossom for later days. The exposure was south, and the railings were high, so that the tiny garden would be assured of sun and security. The soot would fall, and the dust lie thick, but there would be colour and life, and on the air faint wafts of perfume. We went back to the porter's room to hear the particulars of the lease, and on my way I stopped to read the list of names printed on little slides on a mahogany board. There were forty in all, and they were as illuminating as such names usually are, when suddenly, three parts down the list, I came upon one which made my heart leap into my mouth. I stood reading the few words over and over, actually _spelling_ the letters in my incredulous surprise, but there it was; there was no doubt about it--the words plainly printed for every one to see-- "Number 32. Mr Wenham Thorold." Well, talk about fate! There are some circumstances under which one realises at once that it is useless to struggle. This was one! I turned to the porter with an air of resignation. "I will take the flat. Please prepare the necessary papers, and send them to me to sign." Then I gave him my new name. After due deliberation I had determined to be "Miss Mary Harding," as Wastneys is unusual, and might draw undesirable attention. Miss Mary Harding, of a basement flat! CHAPTER SEVEN. HOSTILITIES?