Rooke"-- reflectively--"always reminds me somewhat of a powder barrel.

And Nan is by no means a safety match--warranted to produce a light from the legitimate box and none other!" "I wish," observed Nan plaintively, "that you wouldn't discuss me just as if I weren't here." They all laughed, and then, as the car slowed down to a standstill at Maryon's door, the conversation came to an end.
Rooke had established himself in one of the big and comparatively inexpensive houses in Westminster, in that pleasant, quiet backwater which lies within the shadow of the beautiful old Abbey, away from the noisy stream of general traffic.

The house had formerly been the property of another artist who had built on to it a large and well-equipped studio, so that Rooke had been singularly fortunate in his purchase.
Nan looked about her with interest as the door swung open, admitting them into a fair-sized hall.

The thick Eastern carpet, the dim, blue-grey hangings on the walls, the quaint brazen lamps--hushing the modern note of electric light behind their thick glass panes--spoke eloquently of Maryon.

A faint fragrance of cedar tinged the atmosphere.
The parlourmaid--unmistakably a twentieth-century product--conducted them into a beautiful Old English room, its walls panelled in dark oak, while heavy oaken beams traversed the ceiling.