Henry Haswell had bought The Cedars in a dilapidated condition from the last surviving member of a very old County family; and to such persons as Thaddeus Drybeck it was ironic and faintly displeasing that he should have set it in order, and done away with all the hideous anachronisms (including a conservatory built to lead out of the drawing-room, and chocolate-painted lincrusta walton lining the hall and staircase) with which the Brotherlees had disfigured it. It was now a house of quiet distinction, furnished in excellent taste, and set in a garden which had become, thanks to Mrs. Haswell's fanatical and tireless efforts, one of the loveliest in the County.

As the three men entered the gates, and walked up the drive towards the house, they saw her approaching from the direction of the tennis-courts, a single salmon-pink poppy in her hand. She at once came to meet them, saying: “How nice! Now I can arrange a second four! How do you do, Major? How are you, Gavin? I was just thinking of you, Mr. Drybeck: how right you are not to keep cats! I don't know why it is that one can train dogs to keep off the flowerbeds, but never cats. Just look at this! The wretched creature must have lain on the plant, I should think. Isn't it a shame? Do you mind coming through the house? Then I can put this poor thing in water.”

Talking all the way, in her gently amiable fashion, she led them into the cool, square hall. She was a stout woman, with grey hair, and clothes of indeterminate style and colour, betraying no sign in her person of the unerring taste she showed in house-decoration, and the arrangement of herbaceous borders.