one-eyed cat could not scratch for admittance; Antoinette herself could not enter under pretext of domestic economics and lure me into profitless gossip; and I could defy Carlotta, who is growing to be as pervasive as the smell of pickles over Crosse & Blackwell’s factory.  She comes in without knocking, looks at picture-books, sprawls about doing nothing, smokes my best cigarettes, hums tunes which she has picked up from barrel-organs, bends over me to see what I am writing, munching her eternal sweetmeats in my ear, and laughs at me when I tell her she has irremediably broken the thread of my ideas.  Of course I might be brutal and turn her out.  But somehow I forget to do so, until I realise—­too late—­the havoc she has made with my work.

I did, however, think, when Miss Griggs mounted guard over Carlotta, and Antoinette and her cat were busied with luncheon cook-pans, that my solitude was unimperilled.  I see now there is nothing for it but the tower.  And I cannot build the tower; so I am to be henceforward at the mercy of anything feline or feminine that cares to swish its tail or its skirts about my drawing-room.

I was arranging my notes, I had an illuminating inspiration concerning the life of Francois Villon and the contemporary court of Cosmo de’ Medici; I was preparing to fix it in writing when the door opened and Stenson announced: 

“Mrs. Ordeyne and Miss Ordeyne.”

My Aunt Jessica and Dora came in and my inspiration went out.  It hasn’t come back yet.

My aunt’s apologies and Dora’s draperies filled the room.  I must forgive the invasion.  They knew they were disturbing my work.  They hoped I didn’t mind.

“I wanted mamma to write, but she would come,” said Dora, in her hearty voice.  I murmured polite mendacities and offered chairs.  Dora preferred to stand and gaze about her with feminine curiosity.  Women always seem to sniff for Bluebeardism in a bachelor’s apartment.

“Why, what two beautiful rooms you have.  And the books!  There isn’t an inch of wall-space!”

She went on a voyage of discovery round the shelves while my aunt explained the object of their visit.  Somebody, I forget who, had lent them a yacht.  They were making up a party for a summer cruise in Norwegian fiords.  The Thingummies and the So and So’s and Lord This and Miss That had promised to come, but they were sadly in need of a man to play host—­I was to fancy three lone women at the mercy of the skipper.  I did, and I didn’t envy the skipper.  What more natural, gushed my aunt, than that they should turn to me, the head of the house, in their difficulty?

“I am afraid, my dear aunt,” said I, “that my acquaintance with skipper-terrorising hosts is nil.  I can’t suggest any one.”

“But who asked you to suggest any one?” she laughed.  “It is you yourself that we want to persuade to have pity on us.”

“I have—­much pity,” said I, “for if it’s rough, you’ll all be horribly seasick.”