THEY went into the smoking-room, and whilst uncle Solon was plunging his arms up to the elbows into a mahogany cabinet full of cigars with his name on the bands, Lewis said:—
"I have a feeling that it was in the silence of a seraglio like this in Trieste that you strangled my poor little San Lucido venture."
"Ah I to my jealous lord let my poor head be borne."
"Don't make fun of this house," answered Irene; "I love it just as it is. I lived here as a girl; I was a day boarder at a Maida Vale school then, and I was captain of the hockey team. I used to come back here every evening when the fog begins to thicken and when the street singers cast fantastic shadows on the walls and smile behind their make-up. Yesterday I went up to my old room under the roof; it has been empty since I left it. My bed, a very hard one, where I used to weave ridiculous dreams, still stood in the corner."
"What sort of dreams?"
"I've forgotten now. There's a stuffed cuckoo which I brought back from Interlaken still there."
"I want to see it, this room of yours."
"Why?"
"Just because ..."
"Just as you like," said Irene simply, without waiting to be begged.