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West saw the usual, creeper-covered, French-windowed, sham-romantic, and wholly dilapidated little villa, which realises the ideal of all young lovers for a first nest. To more prosaic minds it suggested earwigs and spiders in summer, loose tiles and burst pipes in winter, and general dampness and discomfort all the year round.

It stood separated from the road by a piece of front garden, in which the uncut grass waved fairy spear-heads, and the unpruned bushes matted out so wide and thick as to screen the sitting-room completely from the passers-by.

The narrow gravel path leading up to the door was painted with mosses, the little trellis-work porch was giving way beneath the weight of vinewood and rose-stem which lay heavy upon it; the virginia-creeper over the window-top swayed down to the ground in graceful diminishing tresses; the bedroom windows above blinked tiny eyes beneath heavy eyelids of greenery. An auctioneer would have described the place as a bijou bower of verdure, and West’s sense of humour was tickled by the thoroughly conventional background it provided for the conventional solitude à deux.

Catterson rang that he might give notice of West’s arrival, and a thin bell responded to his pull from the interior of the house. It was succeeded by the tapping of high heels along the oilcloth, the door opened, and a very little woman, in a dark woollen gown, stood within the threshold.

The nurse, the landlady, the servant, perhaps? West told himself that thiscould not be Nettie Hooper, this plain little creature, who was surely so much older than the girl Catterson had described.

But the next instant Catterson said, “Nettie, this is my great friend, West,” and the little woman had given him a lifeless hand, while she welcomed him in curious, drawling tones, “I’m so glad to see you; Jack is always talking about you; do come in.”

He was certain she was plain, but he had no time to localise her plainness–to decide whether it lay in feature, complexion, or expression, for her back was now towards him; he was following her into the sitting-room, and as he went he looked down upon a dark head of hair, a meagre figure, a dowdy home-made gown.

“I hope you’ve got a good dinner for us,” Catterson began at once, stammering over every consonant.”I don’t know how West may be feeling, but I’m uncommonly hungry myself.”

“You didn’t give me much time,” she answered; “your wire only came at four. I’ve got you some fish, and a steak.”

“And a salad? Good! Nettie’s steaks are ripping, West, you’ll see.”

“Oh, but Mrs. Baker is going to cook the dinner to-night. I didn’t think you’d wish me to leave you and Mr. West, like that.”

During these not very illuminating remarks, West was revising his first impressions. He confessed that the girl had nice features, regular, well-proportioned; that, though she lacked colour, her complexion was of a healthy paleness; that her expression could hardly be called disagreeable, for the difficulty lay in deciding whether she had any expression at all. All the same, she was not pretty: and she was flat-chested, undeveloped, had clumsy hands and feet.

“You have a–quiet little place here,” he said to her to make conversation. He had been going to say “a charming little place,” but a glance round the dark, musty-smelling room was too much for his powers of unveracity.

“Yes, it’s almost too quiet, while Jack is away. Don’t you think, Mr. West, I’m very good to shy here by myself all day long?”

She had the oddest voice, very drawling, very measured, quite inanimate. It said nothing at all to the listener beyond the mere actual words.