chimneys.  It was, however, a masterpiece for the connoisseur, and foreign architects sometimes came with cards of admission to pry into it professionally.  The blinds of its principal windows were down—­not because of the war; they were often down, for at least four other houses disputed with Lechford House the honour of sheltering the Marquis and his wife and their sole surviving child.  Above the roof a wire platform for the catching of bombs had given the mansion a somewhat ridiculous appearance, but otherwise Lechford House managed to look as though it had never heard of the European War.

One half of the black entrance swung open, and a middle-aged gentleman dressed like Lord Lechford’s stockbroker, but who was in reality his butler, said in answer to G.J.’s enquiry: 

“Lady Queenie is not at home, sir.”

“But it is five o’clock,” protested G.J., suddenly sick of Queen’s impudent unreliability.  “And I have an appointment with her at five.”

The butler’s face relaxed ever so little from its occupational inhumanity of a suet pudding; the spirit of compassion seemed to inform it for an instant.

“Her ladyship went out about a quarter of an hour ago, sir.”

“When d’you think she’ll be back?”

The suet pudding was restored.

“That I could not say, sir.”

“Damn the girl!” said G.J. to himself; and aloud:  “Please tell her ladyship that I’ve called.”

“Mr. Hoape, is it not, sir?”

“It is.”

By the force of his raisin eyes the butler held G.J. as he turned to descend the steps.

“There’s nobody at home, sir, except Mrs. Carlos Smith.  Mrs. Carlos Smith is in Lady Queenie’s apartments.”

“Mrs. Carlos Smith!” exclaimed G.J., who had not seen Concepcion for some seventeen months; nor heard from her for nearly as long, nor heard of her since the previous year.

“Yes, sir.”

“Ask her if she can see me, will you?” said G.J. impetuously, after a slight pause.

He stepped on to the tessellated pavement of the outer hall.  On the raised tessellated pavement of the inner hall stood two meditative youngish footmen, possibly musing upon the problems of the intensification of the Military Service Act which were then exciting journalists and statesmen.  Beyond was the renowned staircase, which, rising with insubstantial grace, lost itself in silvery altitude like the way to heaven.  Presently G.J. was mounting the staircase and passing statues by Canova and Thorwaldsen, and portraits of which the heads had been painted by Lawrence and the hands and draperies by Lawrence’s hireling, and huger canvasses on which the heads and breasts had been painted by Rubens and everything else by Rubens’s regiment of hirelings.  The guiding footman preceded him through a great chamber which he recognised as the drawing-room in its winding sheet, and then up a small and insignificant staircase; and G.J. was on ground strange to him, for never till then had he been higher than the first-floor in Lechford House.