"How I envy you." They talked for a time about domestic matters.

Joan had established herself in furnished rooms in a quiet street of pleasant Georgian houses just behind the Abbey; a member of Parliament and his wife occupied the lower floors, the landlord, a retired butler, and his wife, an excellent cook, confining themselves to the basement and the attics.

The remaining floor was tenanted by a shy young man--a poet, so the landlady thought, but was not sure.

Anyhow he had long hair, lived with a pipe in his mouth, and burned his lamp long into the night.

Joan had omitted to ask his name.