he house. Both ladies were on
the wrong side of forty, but their dress was that of young girls. Miss
Doria Wymondham was tall and thin with a mass of nondescript pale hair
confined by a black velvet fillet. Miss Claire Wymondham was shorter
and plumper and had done her best by ill-applied cosmetics to make
herself look like a foreign _demi-mondaine_. They greeted me with the
friendly casualness which I had long ago discovered was the right
English manner towards your guests; as if they had just strolled in and
billeted themselves, and you were quite glad to see them but mustn't be
asked to trouble yourself further. The next second they were cooing
like pigeons round a picture which a young man was holding up in the
lamplight.

He was a tallish, lean fellow of round about thirty years, wearing grey
flannels and shoes dusty from the country roads. His thin face was
sallow as if from living indoors, and he had rather more hair on his
head than most of us. In the glow of the lamp his features were very
clear, and I examined them with interest, for, remember, I was
expecting a stranger to give me orders. He had a long, rather strong
chin and an obstinate mouth with peevish lines about its corners. But
the remarkable feature was his eyes. I can best describe them by saying
that they looked hot--not fierce or angry, but so restless that they
seemed to ache physically and to want sponging with cold water.

They finished their talk about the picture--which was couched in a
jargon of which I did not understand one word--and Miss Doria turned to
me and the young man.

'My cousin Launcelot Wake--Mr Brand.'

We nodded stiffly and Mr Wake's hand went up to smooth his hair in a
self-conscious gesture.

'Has Barnard announced dinner? By the way, where is Mary?'

'She came in five minutes ago and I sent her to change,' said Miss
Claire. 'I won't have her spoiling the evening with that horrid
uniform. She may masquerade as she likes out-of-doors, but this house
is for civilized people.'

The butler appeared and mumbled something. 'Come along,' cried Miss
Doria, 'for I'm sure you are starving, Mr Brand. And Launcelot has
bicycled ten miles.'

The dining-room was very unlike the hall. The panelling had been
stripped off, and the walls and ceiling were covered with a dead-black
satiny paper on which hung the most monstrous pictures in large
dull-gold frames. I could only see them dimly, but they seemed to be a
mere riot of ugly c