at when Langham
shut himself up in Robert's study he did what he had been admonished to
do in case of need, set a light to the fire, which blazed out merrily
into the darkening room. Then he drew the curtains and threw himself
down into Robert's chair with a sigh of Sybaritic satisfaction. 'Good!
Now for something that takes the world less naively,' he said to
himself; 'this house is too virtuous for anything.'

He opened his Montaigne and read on very happily for half an hour. The
house seemed entirely deserted.

'All the servants gone too!' he said presently, looking up and
listening. 'Anybody who wants the spoons needn't trouble about me. I
don't leave this fire.'

And he plunged back again into his book. At last there was a sound of
the swing door which separated Robert's passage from the front hall
opening and shutting. Steps came quickly towards the study, the handle
was turned, and there on the threshold stood Rose.

He turned quickly round in his chair with a look of astonishment. She
also started as she saw him.

'I did not know any one was in,' she said awkwardly, the colour
spreading over her face. 'I came to look for a book.'

She made a delicious picture as she stood framed in the darkness of the
doorway; her long dress caught up round her in one hand, the other
resting on the handle. A gust of some delicate perfume seemed to enter
the room with her, and a thrill of pleasure passed through Langham's
senses.

'Can I find anything for you?' he said, springing up.

She hesitated a moment, then apparently made up her mind that it would
be foolish to retreat, and, coming forward, she said, with an accent as
coldly polite as she could make it,--

'Pray don't disturb yourself. I know exactly where to find it.'

She went up to the shelves where Robert kept his novels, and began
running her fingers over the books, with slightly knitted brows and a
mouth severely shut. Langham, still standing, watched her and presently
stepped forward.

'You can't reach those upper shelves,' he said; 'please let me.'

He was already beside her, and she gave way.

'I want _Charles Auchester_,' she said, still forbiddingly. 'It ought to
be there.'

'Oh, that queer musical novel--I know it quite well. No sign of it
here,' and he ran over the shelves with the practised eye of one
accustomed to deal with books.

'Robert must have lent it,' said Rose, with a little sigh. 'Never mind,
please. It doesn't matter,' and she