“Miss Carlyle has her room here,” said Mrs. Murdoch, pointing next door to the kitchen. “Nice and handy for her as she’s rather late sometimes. I hate to hear anybody go creaking upstairs, I do. It makes me nervous.”
The kitchen was pleasant enough and looked out upon a narrow strip of garden full of coarse plants.
“They’ll be very merry and bright, won’t they?” said Mrs. Murdoch, smiling encouragement at the greenery. “It’s wonderful what you can do nowadays for threepence.”
Michael asked what they were.
“Why, sunflowers, of course, only they want another month yet. I have them every year—yes. They’re less trouble than rabbits or chickens. Now where did I see that postcard?”
She searched the various utensils, and at last discovered the postcard stuck behind a mutilated clock.
“What will they bring out next?” demanded Mrs. Murdoch, surveying it with affectionate approbation. “Pretty, I call it.”
A pair of lovers in black plush were sitting enlaced beneath a pink frosted moon.
“Just the thing, if you’re writing to your young lady,” said Mrs. Murdoch, offering it to Michael.
He accepted it with many expressions of gratitude, but when he was in his own room he laughed very much at the idea of sending it to his mother in Cheyne Walk. However, as he must write and tell her he would not be home for some time, he decided to go out and buy both writing materials and unillustrated postcards. When he came back he found Mrs. Murdoch feathered for the evening’s entertainment. She gave him the latchkey, and from his window Michael watched her progress down Neptune Crescent. Just before her lavender dress disappeared behind the Portugal laurels she turned round and waved to him. He wondered what his mother would say if she knew from what curious corner of London the news of his withdrawal would reach her to-night.