e're in a bit of a mess," he said. "In fact, to
tell the truth, we always are!" He hung his coat in the hall and led
the way into the dining-room. Mrs. Bethel and her daughter came
forward. The little woman was amazing in a dress of bright red silk
and an absurd little yellow lace cap. Only half the table was laid;
for the rest a shabby green cloth, spotted with ink, formed a
background for an incoherent litter of papers and needlework. The
walls were lined with books and there were some piled on the floor.

A cold shoulder of mutton, baked potatoes in their skins, a melancholy
glass dish containing celery, and a salad bowl startlingly empty, lay
waiting on the table.

"Anne," said Bethel, "I've brought a guest--up with the family port and
let's be festive."

His great body seemed to fill the room, and he brought with him the
breath of the sea and the wind. He began to carve the mutton like
Siegfried making battle with Fafner, and indeed again and again during
the evening he reminded Harry of Siegfried's impetuous humour and
rejoicing animal spirits.

Mrs. Bethel was delighted. Her little eyes twinkled with excitement,
her yellow cap was pushed awry, and her hands trembled with pleasure.
It was obvious that a visitor was an unusual event. Miss Bethel had
said very little, but she had given Harry that same smile that he had
seen before. She busied herself now with the salad, and he watched her
white fingers shine under the lamplight and the white curve of her neck
as she bent over the bowl. She was dressed in some dark stuff--quite
simple and unassuming, but he thought that he had never seen anything
so beautiful.

He said very little, but he was quietly happy. Bethel did not talk
very much; he was eating furiously--not greedily, but with great
pleasure and satisfaction. Mrs. Bethel talked continuously. Her eyes
shone and her cap bobbed on her head like a live thing.

"I said, Mr. Trojan, after our meeting the other day, that you would be
a friend. I said so to Mary coming back. I felt sure that first day.
It is so nice to have some one new in Pendragon--one gets used, you
know, to the same faces and tired of them. In my old home, Penlicott
in Surrey, near Marlwood Beeches--you change at Grayling Junction--or
you used to; I think you go straight through now. But _there_ you know
we knew everybody. You really couldn't help it. There was really only
the Vicar and the Doctor, and he was so old. O