wouldn't be a party to bringing any of those ragamuffins up to the bedroom. "Gone a long time ago, sir," he said stolidly. 

 Cosmo had a vivid recollection of the man's pose of being settled for an earnest and absorbing conversation to last half the night. 

 "He doesn't belong to this house?" he asked. 

 "No, sir, he only came to talk to a young woman. I left him taking leave of her to come up to you, sir. I suppose he was the man you meant, sir." 

 "Yes," said Cosmo, "I have no doubt about it. He will probably turn up again." 

 Spire admitted reluctantly that it was likely. He had been telling a long tale to that young woman. "She is very good-looking, sir." 

 "Is she a servant here?" 

 "Oh no, sir. She came in with that old cut-throat cobbler. They seem to be friendly. I don't like the looks of the people in this house." 

 "I wonder," said Cosmo, "whether you could manage to obtain for me a quiet talk with that man on the next occasion he comes here." 

 Spire received this overture in profound silence. 

 "Do you think you could?" insisted Cosmo. 

 A dispassionate raising of the eyebrows preceded the apparently irrelevant remark. "The worst of this house, sir, is that it seems open to all sorts of rabble." 

 "I see. Well, try to think of some way. Spire. You may go now." 

 Spire, carrying the boots, walked as far as the door, where he turned for a moment. "The only way I can think of, sir," he said, "would be to make friends with that young woman." Before Cosmo could recover from the surprise at the positive statement Spire had gone out and had shut the door. 

 Cosmo slept heavily but fitfully, with moments of complete oblivion interrupted by sudden starts, when he would lie on his back with open eyes, wondering for a moment where he was, and then fall asleep again before he had time to make a movement. In the morning the first thing he did was to scribble a note to the Countess Montevesso to ask her permission to call that very morning. While writing the address he smiled to himself at the idea that it was after all the little Adèle whom he remembered but dimly, mostly as a fair head 

 Prev. P 50/183 next