; the
floor a pavement of broad stone flags, covered for the most part now by
a faded Turkey carpet; the narrow windows, small-paned and leaded, set
in deep stone embrasures; a vast fireplace jutting across a corner, the
Craford arms emblazoned in the chimney-piece above; and a wide oak
staircase leading to the upper storey. The room was furnished,
incongruously enough, in quite a modern fashion, rather shabbily, and I
daresay rather mannishly. There were leather arm-chairs and settles,
all a good deal worn, and stout tables littered with books and
periodicals. The narrow windows let in thin slants of mote-filled
sunshine, vortices of gold-dust; and on the faded carpet, by the door,
lay a bright parallelogram, warming to life its dim old colours. The
rest of the room seemed twilit. Someone had been too wise to defeat
that good oak panelling by hanging pictures on it.

"Not a creature is stirring," said Adrian, "not even a mouse.
Sellers--oh, what men daily do, not knowing what they do!--is shut up
in the scullery, I suppose, torturing his poor defenceless fiddle.
That 's what it is to be a musical boot-and-knife boy. And Wickersmith
will be at his devotions. He tells me he never gets leisure for his
morning meditation till luncheon 's cleared away. And that's what it
is to be a pious butler. I 'm doubting whether there was anyone to
disembarrass that flyman of yours of your luggage. So he 's probably
driven off with it all to his humble, happy home. I see none of it
about. Never mind. There 'll be some of your old things in Mrs. W.'s
camphor-chest, perhaps; or if it comes to a pinch, I can lend you a
garment or so of my own,--and then won't Craford of Craford cut a
figure of fun! You will make her acquaintance . . . Let me see.
To-day is Wednesday. We 'll call on her to-morrow."

"On whom?" asked Anthony, looking blank.

"Have we been talking of Queen Berengaria?" Adrian, with his nose in
the air, enquired. "On _whom?_ says you. We 'll call to-morrow
afternoon."

"Not I," said Anthony.

"Not to-morrow?" Adrian raised his eyebrows, well-marked crescents of
reddish-brown above his ruddy face, and assumed thereby a physiognomy
of almost childlike naivete. "Ah, well, on Friday, then;--though
Friday is unlucky, and one rarely shines on a day of abstinence,
anyhow. It's all a fallacy about fish being food for the brain. Meat,
red meat, is what the brain requires." He slapped his forehead. "But
F