Irene nodded. They passed on, up the gallery and entered a large room with a small bed, and several windows.

“This is mine,” he said. The walls were covered with the photographs of children and watercolour sketches, and he addeddoubtfully:

“These are Jo’s. The view’s first-rate. You can see the Grand Stand at Epsom in clear weather.”

The sun was down now, behind the house, and over the ‘prospect’ a luminous haze had settled, emanation of the long andprosperous day. Few houses showed, but fields and trees faintly glistened, away to a loom of downs.

“The country’s changing,” he said abruptly, “but there it’ll be when we’re all gone. Look at those thrushes — the birdsare sweet here in the mornings. I’m glad to have washed my hands of London.”

Her face was close to the window pane, and he was struck by its mournful look. ‘Wish I could make her look happy!’ hethought. ‘A pretty face, but sad!’ And taking up his can of hot water he went out into the gallery.

“This is June’s room,” he said, opening the next door and putting the can down; “I think you’ll find everything.” Andclosing the door behind her he went back to his own room. Brushing his hair with his great ebony brushes, and dabbing hisforehead with eau de Cologne, he mused. She had come so strangely — a sort of visitation; mysterious, even romantic, as ifhis desire for company, for beauty, had been fulfilled by whatever it was which fulfilled that sort of thing. And before themirror he straightened his still upright figure, passed the brushes over his great white moustache, touched up his eyebrowswith eau de Cologne, and rang the bell.

“I forgot to let them know that I have a lady to dinner with me. Let cook do something extra, and tell Beacon to have thelandau and pair at half-past ten to drive her back to Town to-night. Is Miss Holly asleep?”