When they had sat a while in the pale parlour she got up--"This isn't my room: let us go into mine." They had only to cross the narrow hall, as he found, to pass quite into another air.

When she had closed the door of the second room, as she called it, he felt at last in real possession of her.

The place had the flush of life--it was expressive; its dark red walls were articulate with memories and relics.

These were simple things--photographs and water-colours, scraps of writing framed and ghosts of flowers embalmed; but a moment sufficed to show him they had a common meaning.

It was here she had lived and worked, and she had already told him she would make no change of scene.