“Yes,” said G.J. with admirable calm, “I do believe you’ve got the very flat I once looked at with a friend of mine.  If I remember it didn’t fill the bill because the tenant wouldn’t sub-let it unfurnished.  When did you get hold of this?”

“Yesterday afternoon,” Concepcion answered.  “Quick work.  But these feats can be accomplished.  I’ve only taken it for a month.  Hotels seem to be all full.  I couldn’t open my own place at a moment’s notice, and I didn’t mean to stay on at Lechford House, even if they’d asked me to.”

G.J.’s notion of the vastness and safety of London had received a shock.  He was now a very busy man, and would quite sincerely have told anybody who questioned him on the point that he hadn’t a moment to call his own.  Nevertheless, on the previous morning he had spent a considerable time in searching for a nest in which to hide his Christine and create romance; and he had come to this very flat.  More, there had been two flats to let in the block.  He had declined them—­the better one because of the furniture, the worse because it was impossibly small, and both because of the propinquity of the garage.  But supposing that he had taken one and Concepcion the other!  He recoiled at the thought....

Concepcion’s new home, if not impossibly small, was small, and the immensity and abundance of the furniture made it seem smaller than it actually was.  Each little room had the air of having been furnished out of a huge and expensive second-hand emporium.  No single style prevailed.  There were big carved and inlaid antique cabinets and chests, big hanging crystal candelabra, and big pictures (some of them apparently family portraits, the rest eighteenth-century flower-pieces) in big gilt frames, with a multiplicity of occasional tables and bric-a-brac.  Gilt predominated.  The ornate cornices were gilded.  Human beings had to move about like dwarfs on the tiny free spaces of carpet between frowning cabinetry.  The taste and the aim of the author of this home defied deduction.  In the first room a charwoman was cleaning.  Concepcion greeted her like a sister.  In the next room, whose window gave on to a blank wall, tea was laid for one in front of a gas-fire.  Concepcion reached down a cup and saucer from a glazed cupboard and put a match to the spirit-lamp under the kettle.

“Let me see, the bedroom’s up here, isn’t it?” said G.J., pointing along a passage that was like a tunnel.

Concepcion, yielding to his curiosity, turned on lights everywhere and preceded him.  The passage, hung with massive canvases, had scarcely more than width enough for G.J.’s shoulders.  The tiny bedroom was muslined in every conceivable manner.  It had a colossal bed, surpassing even Christine’s.  A muslined maid was bending over some drapery-shop boxes on the floor and removing garments therefrom.  Concepcion greeted her like a sister.  “Don’t let me disturb you, Emily,” she said, and to G.J., “Emily was poor Queenie’s maid, and she has come to me for a little while.”  G.J. amicably nodded.  Tears came suddenly into the maid’s eyes.  G.J. looked away and saw the bathroom, which, also well muslined, was completely open to the bedroom.