It was definitely alarming. No, that was wrong, the word should have been indefinitely. He wasn’t a boy, to be intimidated by an old woman who had outlived her world and retreated into a solitude of her own making. Absurd to have any feeling except compassion. For her-or for Rosamond Maxwell? His former anger rose in him as he took the chair to which she had pointed and said,

“I happened to be passing. But I must apologise for troubling you at this hour. I must confess I lost my way, and then when I was so near-”

There was an overhead chandelier bright with faceted lustres. The electricity so sparely used in the rest of the house blazed from it upon a room full of old and undoubtedly valuable furniture, upon the bookcases and cabinets which lined the walls, upon every description of chair and every kind of small occasional table, upon the china which filled the cabinets, the innumerable small objects which littered the tables, and upon Miss Lydia herself in a grey velvet wrap lifting the hand with the sparkling rings and saying,

“You came to see my niece. I am told that you are in a publishing firm. I believe she amuses herself with scribbling, but you will not ask me to believe that you take that sort of thing seriously.”

Her tone affected him in a singularly unpleasant manner. It carried so final a dismissal of Jenny’s childish ambitions. They might have no value in themselves, and yet mean all the world to a crippled child.

“She had no business to trouble you,” said Lydia Crewe.

He achieved a smile.

“Well, that is what we are there for. I didn’t know how young she was. Of course there could be no question of publishing any of her work at present, but I thought I should like to see her, and perhaps give her a little advice. She obviously loves writing, and since she isn’t very strong, it is probably a great pleasure to her. It is much too soon to say whether there is any real talent.”