“This won’t do,” he yawned when he awoke at half-past four in the afternoon; “I must do better than this to-morrow—­”

And he felt so deliciously lazy that for some minutes he even contemplated the breach of an appointment he had for the evening.

The next morning he sat down to work without even permitting himself to answer one of his three letters—­two of them tradesmen’s accounts, the third a note from Miss Bengough, forwarded from his old address.  It was a jolly day of white and blue, with a gay noisy wind and a subtle turn in the colour of growing things; and over and over again, once or twice a minute, his room became suddenly light and then subdued again, as the shining white clouds rolled north-eastwards over the square.  The soft fitful illumination was reflected in the polished surface of the table and even in the footworn old floor; and the morning noises had begun again.

Oleron made a pattern of dots on the paper before him, and then broke off to move the jar of daffodils exactly opposite the centre of a creamy panel.  Then he wrote a sentence that ran continuously for a couple of lines, after which it broke on into notes and jottings.  For a time he succeeded in persuading himself that in making these memoranda he was really working; then he rose and began to pace his room.  As he did so, he was struck by an idea.  It was that the place might possibly be a little better for more positive colour.  It was, perhaps, a thought too pale—­mild and sweet as a kind old face, but a little devitalised, even wan....  Yes, decidedly it would bear a robuster note—­more and richer flowers, and possibly some warm and gay stuff for cushions for the window-seats....

“Of course, I really can’t afford it,” he muttered, as he went for a two-foot and began to measure the width of the window recesses....

In stooping to measure a recess, his attitude suddenly changed to one of interest and attention.  Presently he rose again, rubbing his hands with gentle glee.

“Oho, oho!” he said.  “These look to me very much like window-boxes, nailed up.  We must look into this!  Yes, those are boxes, or I’m ... oho, this is an adventure!”

On that wall of his sitting-room there were two windows (the third was in another corner), and, beyond the open bedroom door, on the same wall, was another.  The seats of all had been painted, repainted, and painted again; and Oleron’s investigating finger had barely detected the old nailheads beneath the paint.  Under the ledge over which he stooped an old keyhole also had been puttied up.  Oleron took out his penknife.

He worked carefully for five minutes, and then went into the kitchen for a hammer and chisel.  Driving the chisel cautiously under the seat, he started the whole lid slightly.  Again using the penknife, he cut along the hinged edge and outward along the ends; and then he fetched a wedge and a wooden mallet.