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.