Athalie

He nodded and rang. A sleepy night porter opened, recognised Clive,

and touched his hat.

"Take us to the top, Mike," he said.

"Have you the keys, sorr?"

"Yes."

They entered the cage and it shot up to the top floor.

"Wait for us, Mike."... And to Athalie: "This is Michael Daly who will

do anything you ask of him--won't you, Mike?"

"I will that, sorr," said the big Irishman, tipping his hat to

Athalie.

"But, Clive," she persisted, bewildered, still clinging to his arm, "I

don't understand why--"

"Little goose, hush!" he replied, subduing the excitement in his voice

and fitting the key into the door.

"One moment, Athalie," he added, "until I light up. Now!"

She entered the lighted hallway, walking on a soft green carpet, and

turned, obeying the guiding pressure of his arm, into a big square

room which sprang into brilliant illumination as he found the switch.

Green and gold were the hangings and prevailing colours; there were

rugs, wide, comfortable chairs and lounges, bookcases, a picture or

two in deep glowing colours, a baby-grand piano, and an open fire

loaded for business.

"Is it done in good taste, Athalie?" he asked.

"It is charming. Is it yours, Clive?"

He laughed, slipped his arm under hers and led her along the hallway,

opening door after door; and first she was invited to observe a very

modern and glistening bathroom, then a bedroom all done in grey and

rose with dainty white furniture and a white-bear rug beside the bed.

"Why this is a woman's room!" she exclaimed, puzzled.

He only laughed and drew her along the hall, showing her another

bedroom with twin beds, a maid's room, a big clothes press, and

finally, a completely furnished kitchen, very modern with its

porcelain baseboard and tiled walls.

"What do you think of all this, Athalie?" he insisted.

"Why it's exquisite, Clive. Whose is it?"

They walked back to the square living-room. He said, teasingly: "Do

you remember, the first time I saw you after those four years,--that

first evening when I came in to surprise you and found you sitting by

the radiator--in your nightie, Athalie?"

"Yes," she said, laughing and blushing as she always did when he

tormented her with that souvenir.

"And I said that you ought to have an open fire. And a cat. Didn't I?"

"Yes."

"There's your fire, Athalie;" he drew a match from his tiny flat gold

case, struck it, and lighted the nest of pine shavings under the

logs;--"and Michael has the cat when you want it."