"Twice more than was necessary," said Michael, finally dismissing the
subject.

The room where they sat was in Michael's flat in Half Moon Street, and
high up in one of those tall, discreet-looking houses. The windows were
wide open on this hot July afternoon, and the bourdon hum of London,
where Piccadilly poured by at the street end, came in blended and
blunted by distance, but with the suggestion of heat, of movement, of
hurrying affairs. The room was very empty of furniture; there was a rug
or two on the parquet floor, a long, low bookcase taking up the end near
the door, a table, a sofa, three or four chairs, and a piano. Everything
was plain, but equally obviously everything was expensive, and the
general impression given was that the owner had no desire to be
surrounded by things he did not want, but insisted on the superlative
quality of the things he did. The rugs, for instance, happened to be of
silk, the bookcase happened to be Hepplewhite, the piano bore the most
eminent of makers' names. There were three mezzotints on the walls, a
dragon's-blood vase on the high, carved chimney-piece; the whole bore
the unmistakable stamp of a fine, individual taste.

"But there's something else I want to talk to you about, Francis," said
Michael, as presently afterwards they sat over their tea. "I can't say
that I exactly want your advice, but I should like your opinion. I've
done something, in fact, without asking anybody, but now that it's done
I should like to know what you think about it."

Francis laughed.

"That's you all over, Michael," he said. "You always do a thing first,