“Thirty-eight thousand,” she relayed to Mr. Whipplestone, who caught back his breath in a civilized little hiss.

“Indeed?” he said. “You amaze me.”

“It’s a Desirable District,” she replied indifferently. “Properties are at a premium in the Capricorns.” She picked up a document and glanced at it. Mr. Whipplestone was nettled.

“And the rooms?” he asked sharply. “How many? Excluding, for the moment, the basement.”

The lady and the Pre-Raphaelite young gentleman became more attentive. They began to speak in unison and begged each other’s pardon.

“Six,” gabbled the lady, “in all. Excluding kitchen and Usual Offices. Wall-to-wall carpets and drapes included in purchase price. And the Usual Fitments: fridge, range et cetera. Large recep’ with adjacent dining-room, ground floor. Master bedroom and bathroom with toilet, first floor. Two rooms with shower and toilet, second floor. Late tenant used these as flat for married couple.”

“Oh?” said Mr. Whipplestone, concealing the emotional disturbance that seemed to be lodged under his diaphragm. “A married couple? You mean?”

“Did for him,” said the lady.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Serviced him. Cook and houseman. There was an Arrangement by which they also cleaned the basement flat.”

The young man threw in: “Which it is hoped will continue. They are Strongly Recommended to purchaser with Arrangement to be arrived at for continued weekly servicing of basement. No obligation, of course.”

“Of course not.” Mr. Whipplestone gave a small dry cough. “I should like to see it,” he said.

“Certainly,” said the lady crisply. “When would you—?”

“Now, if you please.”

“I think that would suit. If you’ll just wait while I—”

She used her telephone. Mr. Whipplestone bumped into a sudden qualm of near-panic. “I am beside myself,” he thought. “It’s that wretched cat.” He pulled himself together. After all, he was committed to nothing. An impulse, a mere whim, induced he dared say by unaccustomed idleness. What of it?

The lady was looking at him. Perhaps she had spoken to him.

“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Whipplestone.

She decided he was hard-of-hearing. “The house,” she articulated pedantically, “is open to view. The late tenants have vacated the premises. The married couple leave at the end of the week. The owner is at home in the basement flat. Mr. Sheridan,” she shouted. “That’s the vendor’s name: Sheridan.”

“Thank you.”

“Mervyn!” cried the lady, summoning up a wan and uncertain youth from the back office. “No. 1, the Walk. Gentleman to view.” She produced keys and smiled definitively upon Mr. Whipplestone. “It’s a Quality Residence,” she said. “I’m sure you’ll think so.”

The youth attended him with a defeated air round the corner to No. 1, Capricorn Walk.

“Thirty-eight thousand pounds!” Mr. Whipplestone inwardly expostulated. “Good God, it’s outrageous!”

The Walk had turned further into the sun, which now sparkled on No. l’s brass door-knocker and letter-box. Mr. Whipplestone, waiting on the recently scrubbed steps, looked down into the area. It had been really very ingeniously converted, he was obliged to concede, into a ridiculous little garden with everything on a modest scale.

“Pseudo-Japanese,” he thought in a panic-stricken attempt to discredit it.

“Who looks after that?” he tossed at the youth. “The basement?”

“Yar,” said the youth.

(“He hasn’t the faintest idea,” thought Mr. Whipplestone.)

The youth had opened the front door and now stood back for Mr. Whipplestone to enter.

The little hall and stairway were carpeted in cherry red, the glossy walls were an agreeable oyster white. This scheme was continued in a quite sizable drawing-room. The two bow windows curtained in red and white stripes were large and the whole interior remarkably light for a London room. For some twenty years he had vaguely regretted the murkiness of his service flat.

Without warning he was overtaken by an experience that a less sophisticated man might have been tempted to call hallucinatory. He saw, with the utmost clarity, his own possessions occupying this lighthearted room. The Chippendale wall-desk, the crimson sofa with its companion table, the big red glass goblet, the Agatha Troy landscape, the late Georgian bookcase: all were harmoniously accommodated. When the youth opened double doors into a small dining-room, Mr. Whipplestone saw at a glance that his chairs were of precisely the right size and character.

He dismissed these visions. “The partition folds back,” he said with a brave show of indifference, “to form one room, I suppose?”

“Yar,” said the youth and folded it back. He opened red and white striped curtains in the rear wall and revealed a courtyard and tub garden.

“Lose the sun,” Mr. Whipplestone sneered, keeping his head. “Get none in the winter.”

It was, however, receiving its full quota now.

“Damp,” persisted Mr. Whipplestone defiantly. “Extra expense. Have to be kept up.” And he thought: “I’d do better to hold my tongue.”

The kitchen was on the left of the dining-room. It was a modernized affair with a service hatch. “Cramped!” Mr. Whipplestone thought of saying, but his heart was not in it.

The stairs were steep, which ought to have been a comfort. Awkward for trays and luggage and suppose one died how would they get one out of it? He said nothing.

The view from the master bedroom through the French windows embraced in its middle distance the Square with the Sun in Splendour on the left and — more distantly on the right — the dome of the Basilica. In the foreground was the Walk with foreshortened views of pedestrians, parked cars and an intermittent passage of traffic. He opened a French window. They were ringing the bells in the Basilica. Twelve o’clock. Some service or another, he supposed. But you couldn’t say the house was noisy.

The bells stopped. Somewhere, out of sight, a voice was raised in a reiterated, rhythmical shout. He couldn’t distinguish the sense of it but it came nearer. He went out on one of the two little balconies.

“Air-eye-awf,” shouted the voice, and round the far corner of the Square came a horse-drawn cart, nodding with tulips and led by a red-faced man. He passed No. 1 and looked up.

“Any time. All fresh,” he bawled directly at Mr. Whipplestone, who hastily withdrew.

(His big red glass goblet in the bow window, filled with tulips.)

Mr. Whipplestone was a man who did not indulge in histrionics, but under the last of whatever madness now possessed him he did, as he made to leave the window, flap the air with two dismissive palms. The gesture brought him face-to-face with a couple, man and woman.

“I beg your pardon,” they all said and the small man added: “Sorry, sir. We just head the window open and thought we’d better see.” He glanced at the youth. “Order to view?” he asked.

“Yar.”

“You,” said Mr. Whipplestone, dead against his will, “must be the — the upstairs — ah — the—”

“That’s right, sir,” said the man. His wife smiled and made a slight bob. They were rather alike, being round-faced, apple-cheeked and blue-eyed, and were aged, he thought, about fifty-five.

“You are — I understand — ah — still — ah—”

“We’ve stayed on to set things to rights, sir. Mr. Sheridan’s kindly letting us remain until the end of the week. Gives us a chance to find another place, sir, if we’re not wanted here.”

“I understand you would be — ah—”

“Available, sir?” they both said quickly and the man added, “We’d be glad to stay on if the conditions suited. We’ve been here with the outgoing tenant six years, sir, and very happy with it. Name of Chubb, sir, references on request and the owner, Mr. Sheridan, below, would speak for us.”

“Quite, quite, quite!” said Mr. Whipplestone in a tearing hurry. “I — ah — I’ve come to no conclusion. On the contrary. Idle curiosity, really. However. In the event — the remote event of my — be very glad — but so far — nothing decided.”