Miss Silver’s needles clicked. The Air Force sock revolved. She reflected on the sad prevalence of untruthfulness-a distressing fault which should be wisely and firmly corrected in the young. She said a little primly,

“And how did you know that I lived here, Mrs. Underwood?”

That unbecoming flush came up again.

“Oh, Margaret Moray mentioned it, you know-she just happened to mention it-and I felt I could not pass your very doorstep without coming in. What a nice flat you have here. A flat is so much more convenient than a house-don’t you think so? No stairs. I don’t wonder maids won’t go to those basement houses. And then if you want to go away you have only to put your front door key in your pocket, and there you are.”

Miss Silver said nothing. Her needles clicked. She supposed that her visitor would presently come to the point. Not a very agreeable speaking voice-high-pitched, and with something of the sound given out by china with a crack in it.

Mrs. Underwood continued to talk.

“Of course there are drawbacks. When I lived in the country I adored my garden. I delight in a garden, but my husband was obliged to be nearer his work-the Air Ministry, you know. And then when he was ordered up north, well, there I was with the flat on my hands, and if it hadn’t been for the war, I could have let it a dozen times over, but of course nobody wants to take flats in London now. Not that it’s really in London -Putney, you know-one of those delightful old houses which used to be right in the country. It belonged to Vandeleur, the artist, who made such a lot of money painting the royal family when Queen Victoria had all those children, so of course he became the rage and made a fortune, which artists hardly ever do, but I think he had private means as well.