The Millionaire rose to his feet with a yawn.
"He must get an experienced woman-friend to help him with things like carpets and curtains," he ordained with mellow benevolence. "When my wife comes back from Wales…. How soon do you have to turn out, Poet?"
The Poet woke with a start and looked at the clock. The time was a quarter to two, and he still wanted to go to bed.
"Ten days," he murmured drowsily.
"Jove! You haven't much time," said the Millionaire. "Now, look here; the one thing NOT to do is to be in a hurry. Any place you take now will probably have to serve you for several years, and you'll find moving a lot more expensive than you think. If you can get some kind of shake-down for a few days,—" he turned expansively to his friends—"we may be able to give you a few hints."
The Poet became suddenly wakeful and alert.
"Do I understand that you're offering me a bed until you find me permanent quarters?" he enquired with slow precision.
"Er—yes," said the Millionaire a little blankly.
"Thank you," answered the Poet simply. "I say, d'you men mind if I turn you out now? It's rather late, and I haven't been sleeping very well."