“Anyhow,” said Herold, extinguishing his cigarette in the ash-tray, “it's out of the question.” He rose from his chair. “Look here,” he cried with an air of inspiration, “why not send her down to The Channel House?” “I'm not going to shift responsibilities on to other people's shoulders,” John growled in his obstinate way. “This child 's my responsibility. I 'm going to see her through somehow. As to Southcliff, you must be crazy to suggest it. What's to prevent her, one fine day, from getting into Stella's room and talking? My God! it would be appalling!” Herold agreed. He had spoken thoughtlessly. “I should just think so,” said Risca. “The idea of such a tale of horror being told in that room--” The dresser entered. “Miss Mercier has just gone on, sir.” “Well, just think out something else till I come back,” said Herold. “At any rate, Fenton Square won't do.” He left John to smoke and meditate among the clothes hanging up on pegs and the framed photographs on the walls and the array of grease paints on the dressing-table. John walked up and down the narrow space in great perplexity of mind. Herold was right. He could not introduce Unity Blake into lodgings, saying that he had adopted her. Landladies would not stand it. Even if they would, what in the world could he do with her? Could he move into a house or a flat and persuade a registry-office to provide him with a paragon of a housekeeper? That would be more practicable. But, even then, what did he know of the training, moral and spiritual, necessary for a girl of fifteen? He was not going to employ her as a servant. On that he was decided. What sort of a position she should have he did not know; but her floor-scrubbing, dish-scraping days were over. She should have ease of life and loving care--his own phrase stuck in his head--especially loving care; and he was the only person in the world who could see that she got it. She must live under his roof. That was indisputable. But how? In lodgings or a flat? He went angrily round and round the vicious circle. When Herold returned, he dragged him round and round, too, until Perkins appeared to help him to change for the third act. Then John had to stop. He clapped on his hat. He must go and work. “And you have n't a single suggestion to make?” he asked. “I have one,” said Herold, fastening his shirt-studs while Perkins was buttoning his boots. “But it's so commonplace and unromantic that you 'd wreck the dressing-room if I made it.” “Well, what is it?” He stood, his hand on the door-knob. “You 've got a maiden aunt somewhere, have n't you?” “Oh, don't talk rot!” said John. “I'm dead serious.”