It seemed to be a house that would have ten rooms, at least. George wondered what made it look so peculiar. Then he realized that its board walls were not vertical, but sloped inward toward the top, so that its rooms would be smaller at the ceiling than the floor. It looked like a house of cards. Loto had turned into another path. A brown picket fence enclosed the house with perhaps an acre of ground. Inside was a flower garden, abloom with an extraordinary profusion of flowers. A short flight of wooden steps led to the veranda. There Loto stopped. "I think we should retire at once," Rogers said. "We have so much to talk of--but it will wait." "Yes," Loto agreed. "Come with me, Father. George, you stay here. I'll be right out." George sat down on the veranda, with his back against a round palm trunk that was supporting its roof. He realized now how tired he was, and this heavy air made him sleepy, he heard the others moving away, entering the house. He took off his coat, then his shirt and, using them for a pillow, stretched himself out at full length on the board flooring of the veranda. In a moment, when Loto returned to take him to the room they were to occupy together, he found George sleeping peacefully. * * * * * George awakened with the morning sun streaming through a window. He was on a broad couch, and in a chair beside him, Loto was reclining comfortably, smoking his black brier pipe. He smiled. "Oh, you're awake, are you? You ought to be--it's hours after sunrise." A vague memory of being taken into the house by Loto the night before drifted back to George. He remembered being half-asleep and talking to his friend, but it was all like a dream. The room was small, queer-looking, with its walls sloping together toward the ceiling. But it was bright and clean, with brown fibre matting on the floor. The air was as moist and heavy as ever, and even warmer. George sat up, mopping his forehead with his shirt sleeve. "I've got your clothes," Loto said, indicating a stool with garments lying on it. "You don't need much in this heat. Get up and try them on." George was presently arrayed, like Loto, in low, tight slippers of soft hide--clipped dog-skin, Loto told him--with trousers of white material, bulging above the knees and tight at the ankles, and a brown and green cloth jacket, ornamented with little metal coins. The jacket was square-cut and short; it just covered the waist-band of the trousers in back. It was lined with something soft, thin and yet absorbent; it felt smooth and comfortable next to George's skin. But it would not meet in front; it left his chest and stomach bare. He stood regarding it ruefully until Loto showed him how to fasten it closed across his stomach. "Nice and cool--when you get used to it," George commented, staring down at his exposed chest. "How do I look? Kind of queer, don't I?" He twisted himself around, trying to see down over the side bulge of his trousers.