hn Selwyn Selborne then, his baggage neatly labelled with his
first and second names, set down on the little platform of Yalding
Station. Behold him, waggonette-borne, crossing the old stone bridge and
the golden glory of the Leas, flushed with sunset.

Mrs Sheepmarsh's house was long and low and white. It had a classic
porch, and at one end a French window opened through cascades of jasmine
to a long lawn. There were many trees. A middle-aged lady in decent
black, with a white cap, and white lace about her neck, greeted him with
formal courtesy. "This way," she said, and moved for him to follow her
through a green gate and down a shrubbery that led without disguise or
pretence straight away from the house. It led also to a little white
building embowered in trees. "Here," said the lady. She opened the door.
"I'll tell the man to bring your luggage. Good evening----"

And she left him planted there. He had to bend his head to pass under
the low door, and he found himself in a tiny kitchen. Beyond were a
sitting-room and two bedchambers. All fitted sparsely, but with old
furniture, softly-faded curtains, quiet and pleasant to look upon. There
were roses in a jug of Gres de Flandre on the gate-table in the
sitting-room.

"What a singular little place!" he said. "So these are the lodgings. I
feel like a dog in a kennel. I suppose they will throw me a bone
by-and-by--or, at any rate, ask me what kind of bones I prefer."

He unpacked his clothes and laid his belongings in the drawers and
cupboards; it was oddly charming that each shelf or drawer should have
its own little muslin bag of grey lavender. Then he took up a book and
began to read. The sunset had died away, the daylight seemed to be
glowing out of the low window like a tide, leaving bare breadths of
darkness behind. He lighted candles. He was growing hungry--it was past
eight o'clock.

"I believe the old lady has forgotten my existence," he said, and
therewith opened his cottage door and went out into the lighter twilight
of the garden. The shrubbery walks were winding. He took the wrong
turning, and found himself entering on the narrow lawn. From the French
window among the jasmine came lamplight--and voices.

"No servant, no food? My good mother, you've entertained a lunatic
unawares."

"He had references."

"Man cannot live by references alone. The poor brute must be
starving--unless he's drunk."

"Celia! I do wish you wouldn't----"

John Selborne h