Mr Andrews rose to his impressive height, and turned out the very faint gleam of geniality which had illumined his large blue eyes. Monica was shown out into Plough Court by Mr Boykin, who assured her that he would see that she was moved to Courtfield Gardens that very afternoon.

“You’ll be wanting a few sticks, won’t you?” said Mr Boykin. He sat on Monica’s trunk, which he and a disgruntled taxi-man had just dragged and boosted up three flights of stairs, getting his breath and surveying her new quarters.

“Semi-furnished was the wording of the advertisement,” said Mrs Merry. Her manner was not defensive, but there was a hint in her voice that, if hostility should arise, she was ready for it. “I naturally expected that the young lady would want to have her own things about her. It was never mentioned to me that the young lady was from the Dominions.” Mrs Merry contrived, in this statement, to make it clear that in her view being from the Dominions was the sort of thing which a tenant would conceal for as long as possible.

Unquestionably Monica would be wanting a few sticks. There were no carpets on the floors and no curtains on the windows. The bedroom contained a single bed, a washstand upon which stood a very large jug in a basin, and a very small clothes-press in the Art Nouveau manner, with a bit of looking-glass let into the front of it. The sitting-room was furnished with one of those day-beds upon which it is uncomfortable to sit and even more uncomfortable to lie, a large discouraged pouffe covered with grubby cretonne, and a dirty, scarred little object which was probably once described as “a handy smoker’s chairside table”. There was nothing else.

The rooms were small and the distemper on the walls had been marked and scuffed by many tenants. Outside the windows, two feet from the glass, was the decorative balustrade which ran across the face of the house—a kind of fence with bulbous stone palings—so that it was easy to look out at the sky, but very hard to see down into the street.

“There are facilities for light housekeeping, as you see,” said Mrs Merry, opening the door of a small cupboard in which, indeed, there was a very old, scabby gas-ring and some shelving. She unveiled this wonder as though it clinched the desirability of her rooms.

“And when may we expect the piano?” said she.

“I’ll have one sent round when Sir Benedict gives the word,” said Mr Boykin. Mrs Merry thawed a little at the mention of a title.

“I shall have to hold you responsible for any damage done in moving the instrument upstairs,” said she. Adding, to Monica, “You’ll be able to make as much noise as you like up here; there’s nobody on this floor in the daytime, and rarely anyone downstairs.”

“That’ll be great,” said Monica, who was thoroughly unnerved by Mrs Merry, and anxious to placate her. If Mrs Merry wanted noise, she would promise noise.

“I’ll be getting along,” said Mr Boykin. “Anything you want, give me a tinkle.”

“Well—what about the sticks?” said Monica. “Shall I get them, and have the bill sent to you? Or what?”

Mr Boykin had not foreseen this; he had assumed that Monica would buy her own sticks.

“I’ll have to speak to Mr Andrews about that,” he said. “Don’t do anything until you hear from me.”

“And what about Sir Benedict?”

“We’ll be getting on to him; you wait till you hear from us.”

“Yes—and money? How do I get money to live?”

“Haven’t you any on hand?”

“Very little.” As a matter of fact, Monica had twenty pounds in five-pound notes which she did not mean to touch. That was insurance against anything going wrong with the Bridgetower Trust. She was young, but she was no fool about money.

“Well, I haven’t had any instructions yet. But don’t worry. I’ll get everything straightened away just as soon as I’ve had a talk with Mr Andrews. A Happy New Year, Miss Gall.”

Mr Boykin took his leave, reflecting that the law would be the most delightful profession in the world if only it didn’t involve these odd little necessities to take care of people; they always wanted things which were, to the legal mind, superfluous and looked badly on itemized statements. Still, the girl had to have some furniture. And she was quite right not to buy it herself. That girl had her head screwed on right.

“What do I do about heat?” asked Monica when he had gone.

“The gas-fire and the hot-plate work from the meter above the door,” said Mrs Merry. “You will be wise always to keep a stock of shillings on hand; it is useless to apply to me, for I simply cannot undertake to make change for my tenants. It is a rule which I have been compelled to make,” she said reproachfully, and left Monica alone in her splendour.

Splendour it was, to Monica, for she had never had a place of her own before, nor had she lived in such a grand house. Mrs Merry’s establishment was in one of South Kensington’s Italianate terraces, with an imposing entrance hall and a handsome, sweeping staircase. It was true that Monica’s rooms were on the floor which had once sheltered the servants, and lacked the high ceilings and ornate plasterwork of the lower apartments: it was true, also, that the gas-fire was an inadequate, popping nuisance, and the inconveniently placed meter demanded shillings with tiresome frequency; and it was true that quite a long journey had to be made to the bathroom on the lower floor, for the large jug and basin were apparently not intended for use. But it was her own place, not to be shared with Alice or anyone, and she had high hopes of it. She settled down to wait for news from Mr Boykin.

During the first week of waiting she passed the time by exploring the part of London in which she found herself. She walked in Kensington Gardens and Hyde Park. The Albert Memorial, coming to her as a surprise, seemed a beautiful thing, and the Albert Hall, from the outside, splendid. She walked the Natural History Museum and the Victoria and Albert, and told herself that they were immensely educational. She found Cheyne Walk and the river. She became so well known in Harrods that the detectives began to watch her closely. While she was exploring it was not hard to keep her spirits up.

It was another matter when she was in her rooms in Courtfield Gardens. Mrs Merry was no cheerful Cockney; indeed, she was like nothing of which Monica had ever heard. She seemed to be rather grand, for she spoke in a refined manner, making a diphthong of every vowel, and she wore a look of suffering bravely borne which was, in Monica’s eyes, distinguished. If Mrs Merry had given her any encouragement, Monica would have confided in her and sought her advice, but Mrs Merry kept her tenants in their place by an elaborate disdain, which she made particularly frosty for Monica’s benefit. And so Monica spent her evenings alone, sitting on the day-bed as long as she could endure it, and going to bed when she could bear no more. During the first day or two she attempted to get on with War and Peace, but found it depressing, and as time wore on she suffered from that sense of unworthiness which attacks sensitive people who have been rebuffed by a classic. She read magazines and newspapers. There appeared to be an extraordinary amount of rape in London.

Meals were her greatest worry. Where could she eat? There were plenty of places which offered food, it was true, but she did not like any of them. There were horrible, dirty little holes-in-the-wall, which depended heavily on sausages and boiled cabbage for their bill of fare. And there were foreign restaurants which alarmed her because the food was all described in unknown tongues, and incomprehensible purple writing, and besides it was all too expensive to be enjoyed. In Chelsea she found coffee bars, but they seemed to be the exclusive property of oddly-dressed young men and women who made her feel awkward and unwelcome, and anyhow they did not offer much to eat. There were other Chelsea restaurants, kept by very refined ladies who, like Mrs Merry, gave out an atmosphere of highbred grievance; they provided extremely quaint and individual surroundings, stressing Toby jugs and warming-pans, but gave surprisingly little food for what they charged. And none of the food agreed with her. After a few days her largest meal had become a bready, cakey tea at a Kardomah in Brompton Road.