"My Dear Mr. St. George," the note ran. "My niece is not at
home, and I can not tell how your suggestion will be received
by her, though it is most kind. I may, however, answer for
myself that I shall be glad to see you at four o'clock this
afternoon.
"Very truly yours,
"MEDORA HASTINGS."

Grateful for her evident intention to waste no time, St. George
dressed and drove to the Boris, punctually sending up his card at
four o'clock. At once he was ushered to Mrs. Hastings' apartment.

St. George entered her drawing-room incuriously. Three years of
entering drawing-rooms which he never thereafter was to see had
robbed him of that sensation of indefinable charm which for many a
strange room never ceases to yield. He had found far too many tables
upholding nothing which one could remember, far too many pictures
that returned his look, and rugs that seemed to have been selected
arbitrarily and because there was none in stock that the owner
really liked. He was therefore pleasantly surprised and puzzled by
the room which welcomed him. The floor was tiled in curious blocks,
strangely hieroglyphed, as if they had been taken from old tombs.
Over the fireplace was set a panel of the same stone, which, by the
thickness of the tiles, formed a low shelf. On this shelf and on
tables and in a high window was the strangest array of objects that
St. George had ever seen. There were small busts of soft rose stone,
like blocks of coral. There was a statue or two of some indefinable
white material, glistening like marble and yet so soft that it had
been indented in several places by accidental pressure. There were
fans of strangely-woven silk, with sticks of carven rock-crystal,