The young lady I named
isn't my CHOICE."

"Well then, that's only a sign the more that you do these things more
easily."

"Oh 'easily'!" Mitchy murmured.

"We oughtn't at any rate to keep it up," said Vanderbank, who had looked
at his watch. "Twelve twenty-five--good-night. Shall I blow out the
candles?"

"Do, please. I'll close the window"--and Mitchy went to it. "I'll follow
you--good-night." The candles after a minute were out and his friend
had gone, but Mitchy, left in darkness face to face with the vague quiet
garden, still stood there.

BOOK EIGHTH. TISHY GRENDON

I

The footman, opening the door, mumbled his name without sincerity,
and Vanderbank, passing in, found in fact--for he had caught the
symptom--the chairs and tables, the lighted lamps and the flowers alone
in possession. He looked at his watch, which exactly marked eight, then
turned to speak again to the servant, who had, however, without another
sound and as if blushing for the house, already closed him in. There was
nothing indeed but Mrs. Grendon's want of promptness that failed of a
welcome: her drawing-room, on the January night, showed its elegance
through a suffusion of pink electricity which melted, at the end of
the vista, into the faintly golden glow of a retreat still more sacred.
Vanderbank walked after a moment into the second room, which also proved
empty and which had its little globes of white fire--discreetly limited
in number--coated with lemon-coloured silk. The walls, covered with
delicate French mouldings, were so fair that they seemed vaguely
silvered; the low French chimney had a French fire. There was a
lemon-coloured stuff on the sofa and chairs, a wonderful polish on the
floor that was largely exposed, and a copy of a French novel in blue
paper on one of the spindle-legged tables. Vanderbank looked about him
an instant as if generally struck, then gave himself to something that
had particularly caught his eye. This was simply his own name written
rather large on the cover of the French book and endowed, after he
had taken the volume up, with the power to hold his attention the
more closely the longer he looked at it. He uttered, for a private
satisfaction, before letting the matter pass, a low confused sound;
after which, flinging the book down with some emphasis in another place,
he moved to the chimney-piece, where his eyes for a little intently
fixed the small ashy wood-fire. When he raised them again i