nation. In this practice of taking family matters to Timothy’s in the Bayswater Road, Soames was but following in thefootsteps of his father, who had been in the habit of going at least once a week to see his sisters at Timothy’s, and hadonly given it up when he lost his nerve at eighty-six, and could not go out without Emily. To go with Emily was of no use,for who could really talk to anyone in the presence of his own wife? Like James in the old days, Soames found time to gothere nearly every Sunday, and sit in the little drawing-room into which, with his undoubted taste, he had introduced a gooddeal of change and china not quite up to his own fastidious mark, and at least two rather doubtful Barbizon pictures, atChristmastides. He himself, who had done extremely well with the Barbizons, had for some years past moved towards theMarises, Israels, and Mauve, and was hoping to do better. In the riverside house which he now inhabited near Mapledurham hehad a gallery, beautifully hung and lighted, to which few London dealers were strangers. It served, too, as a Sundayafternoon attraction in those week-end parties which his sisters, Winifred or Rachel, occasionally organised for him. Forthough he was but a taciturn showman, his quiet collected determinism seldom failed to influence his guests, who knew thathis reputation was grounded not on mere aesthetic fancy, but on his power of gauging the future of market values. When hewent to Timothy’s he almost always had some little tale of triumph over a dealer to unfold, and dearly he loved that coo ofpride with which his aunts would greet it. This afternoon, however, he was differently animated, coming from Roger’s funeralin his neat dark clothes — not quite black, for after all an uncle was but an uncle, and his soul abhorred excessive displayof feeling. Leaning back in a marqueterie chair and gazing down his uplifted nose at the sky-blue walls plastered with gold