We'll talk no more of it." There was a brief silence.

Dyce gazed slowly about him.

His eyes fell on nothing of particular value, nothing at all unusual in the drawing-room of a small house of middle-suburb type.

There were autotypes and etchings and photographs; there was good, comfortable furniture; the piano stood for more than mere ornament, as Mrs.
Woolstan had some skill in music.

Iris's widowhood was of five years' duration.