er away a corner of the
monastery. There were large reception-rooms, and bedrooms the size of
the ground floor of a small house. The dining-room was oak panelled,
the ceiling oak, and it was furnished with massive chairs and a huge
table. There was a great sideboard, carved by Gibbons, which cost an
enormous sum, carvings adorned the wood mantelpiece over the open
fireplace. It was a room in which fifty guests might sit down with
ease.

Alan had his favorite rooms, the smallest in the house; his study was a
model of comfort, and there was another room opening from it which
contained all his sporting paraphernalia. There were guns of various
makes, over a dozen; Harry Morby had tested some of them and expressed
the opinion that a bad shot might kill birds with such weapons.

A case of fishing-rods occupied one side of the room. Half a dozen
saddles, some racing jackets, bridles, dog collars, boxing gloves,
foils, whips, boots, spurs, miscellaneous tools handy for sporting
purposes.

Pictures of racing and hunting scenes hung on the walls; there was a
life-like painting of Fred Archer, the beautiful eyes being perfect,
also another of Tom Cannon, Mornington Cannon, George Fordham,
portraits of Maher, Frank Wotton and several well-known gentleman
riders who were friends of Alan's.

This was the room where guests were wont to congregate and talk over
the day's shooting, or discuss the merits of horses and jockeys.

Alan had breakfast, and came into this room to read the papers before
going for his customary ride; he was always ready and fit to accept a
mount in a welter race, or ride over the sticks in the hurdle and
chasing season.

He looked carelessly at half a dozen papers but his attention wandered,
he could not concentrate his thoughts on anything he saw, he read bits
here and there but they were not fixed in his mind. He tossed the
papers in a heap on the table, filled his pipe and smoked dreamily.

There were a dozen servants in the house but he was the only occupant
of the owner's quarters. He did not feel exactly lonely, but he liked
somebody to talk with, and having been a few days by himself he wished
for company.

Evelyn Berkeley was at The Forest and he thought he would ride over and
see her; she was always good company and he liked her, but she was
dangerously charming and he acknowledged he felt the influence when in
her presence.

Why not marry her? He was sure she would accept him if h