, into the lock. He turned it, and pushed open the door.
It gave at once into a small but cheerful room, brick-floored, with a big
fireplace at one side. An oak settle stood by the fireplace; a low seat,
covered with a somewhat faded dimity, was before the window; there was a
basket-chair, two wooden chairs, a round table, a dresser with some
highly coloured earthenware crockery on it, a corner cupboard, and a
grandfather's clock. There was a door behind the settle to the right of
the fireplace, and, in the opposite corner, stairs leading to a room or
rooms above.

Antony put his bag down on the table and went to investigate the door. It
led into a tiny scullery or kitchen, provided solely with a small range,
a deal table, a chair, a sink, and a pump. In one corner was a box
containing some pieces of wood. In another corner was a galvanized
bucket, a broom, and a scrubbing-brush. He glanced around, then came back
into the sitting-room, and made his way to the stairs.

They led direct into a bedroom, a place furnished with a camp bed covered
with a red and brown striped blanket; a small, somewhat rickety oak chest
of drawers, a rush-bottomed chair, a small table, a corner washstand, and
a curtain, which hid pegs driven into the wall. A door led into a small
inner room over the kitchen scullery. Antony opened the door. The room
was empty. Widow Jenkins had had no use for it, it would appear. Or, so
Antony suddenly thought, perhaps all Widow Jenkins's furniture had been
removed, and what at present occupied the place had been put there solely
on his account.

He crossed to the window, and pushed it back. It looked on to a tiny
vegetable garden, in much the same state of neglect as the front garden,
and was separated from a field yellow with buttercups by a low hawthorn
hedge. Beyond the field was a tiny brook; and, beyond that again, a
copse. There was not a sound to break the silence, save the dripping of
the rain from the roof of the cottage, and, in the distance, the low
sighing note of the sea. The silence was emphasized by the fact that for
the last week Antony had had the hum of traffic in his ears, and had but
this moment come from the noise of trains and the rattle of a shaky
dog-cart.

He still leaned there looking out. It was even more silent than the
veldt. There were no little strange animal noises to break the silence.
Nothing but that drip, drip of the rain, and that soft distant sighing of
the sea.

A