Hence, though highly placed, it was shut in. Three

years had passed since I last set eyes upon, it, but the unsightly

memory I had retained was justified by the reality. The place was

deplorable.

It is my habit to express my opinions audibly sometimes, when

impressions are strong enough to warrant it; but now I only sighed

‘Oh, dear,’ as I extricated my legs from many rugs and went into the

house. A tall parlourmaid, with the bearing of a grenadier, received

me, and standing behind her was Mrs. Marsh, the housekeeper, whom I

remembered because her untidy back hair had suggested to me that it

had been burnt. I went at once to my room, my hostess already dressing

for dinner, but Frances came in to see me just as I was struggling with

my black tie that had got tangled like a bootlace. She fastened it for

me in a neat, effective bow, and while I held my chin up for the

operation, staring blankly at the ceiling, the impression came—I

wondered, was it her touch that caused it?—that something in her

trembled. Shrinking perhaps is the truer word. Nothing in her face or

manner betrayed it, nor in her pleasant, easy talk while she tidied my

things and scolded my slovenly packing, as her habit was, questioning

me about the servants at the flat. The blouses, though right, were

crumpled, and my scolding was deserved. There was no impatience even.

Yet somehow or other the suggestion of a shrinking reserve and holding

back reached my mind. She had been lonely, of course, but it was more

than that; she was glad that I had come, yet for some reason unstated

she could have wished that I had stayed away. We discussed the news

that had accumulated during our brief separation, and in doing so the

impression, at best exceedingly slight, was forgotten. My chamber was

large and beautifully furnished; the hall and dining-room of our flat

would have gone into it with a good remainder; yet it was not a place

I could settle down in for work. It conveyed the idea of impermanence,

making me feel transient as in a hotel bedroom. This, of course, was

the fact. But some rooms convey a settled, lasting hospitality even in

a hotel; this one did not; and as I was accustomed to work in the room

I slept in, at least when visiting, a slight frown must have crept

between my eyes.

‘Mabel has fitted a workroom for you just out of the library,’

said the clairvoyant Frances.

‘No one will disturb you there, and you’ll have fifteen thousand

books all catalogued within easy reach. There’s a private staircase

too. You can breakfast in your room and slip down in your

dressing-gown if you want to.’ She laughed. My spirits took a turn

upwards as adsurdly as they had gone down.

‘And how are you?’ I asked, giving her a belated kiss. ‘It’s jolly

to be together again. I did feel rather lost without you, I’ll admit.’

‘That’s natural,’ she laughed. ‘I’m so glad.’

She looked well and had country colour in her cheeks. She informed

me that she was eating and sleeping well, going out for little walks

with Mabel, painting bits of scenery again, and enjoying a complete

change and rest; and yet, for all her brave description, the word

somehow did not quite ring true. Those last words in particular did

not ring true.