delicate," like Mr. Glegg, deterred me. Presently I was shown into what, only too evidently, was our host's own room, for a servant snatched away some last remaining effects of his master—a spatter-brush and a slipper—as I entered. I sat down on the bed and pondered over what I would have felt had I been a man, and shy, and seedy, and a strange female had been suddenly shot into my peaceful home.
It was rather a difficult week-end. I have met men who were difficult to talk to, but never one like Mr. Ferris, who, while willing, indeed anxious, to be agreeable, so absolutely annihilated conversation. It wasn't till dinner on Sunday night that I discovered a subject that really interested him—London restaurants. He grew quite animated as we discussed the relative merits of the Ritz, the Carlton, the Savoy, the Dieudonné. I think that long, thin, bald, gentle bachelor spends all his spare moments—and he must have many in lonely Misanpore—thinking about his next leave and the feasts he will then enjoy. Yet the odd thing is he isn't greedy about food. I think it must be more the lights and music and people that attract him.
Mr. Ferris and Boggley were away all Sunday,
