astening by, put a period to the conversation by boots
crunching heavily and conscientiously on the gravel. Both voices
ceased. He presented himself at the lamp-lit oblong of the window.

Within that lamplight glowed on the last remnants of a meal--dinner, by
the glasses and the fruit. Also on the lady in the cap, and on a
girl--the one, doubtless, who had evolved the lunatic idea. Both faces
were turned towards him. Both women rose: there was nothing for it but
advance. He murmured something about intrusion--"awfully sorry, the
walks wind so," and turned to go.

But the girl spoke: "Oh, wait a moment. Is this Mr Selwyn, mother?"

"My daughter, Miss Sheepmarsh--Mr Selwyn," said the mother reluctantly.

"We were just talking about you," said the girl, "and wondering whether
you were ill or anything, or whether your servant hasn't turned up, or
something."

"Miss Sheepmarsh." He was still speechless. This the little adventuress,
the tobacconist's assistant? This girl with the glorious hair severely
braided, the round face, the proud chin, the most honest eyes in the
world? She might be sister to the adventuress--cousin, perhaps? But the
room, too--shining mahogany, old china, worn silver, and fine
napery--all spoke of a luxury as temperate as refined: the luxury of
delicate custom, of habit bred in the bone; no mushroom growth of gross
self-indulgence, but the unconscious outcome of generations of clear
self-respect.

"Can we send anything over for you?" the elder lady asked. "Of course
we----"

"We didn't mean by 'entirely private' that we would let our tenant
starve," the girl interrupted.

"There is some mistake." Selborne came to himself suddenly. "I thought I
was engaging furnished apartments with er--attendance."

The girl drew a journal from a heap on the sofa.

"This was the advertisement, wasn't it?" she asked.

And he read:

"Four-roomed cottage, furnished, in beautiful grounds. Part of
these are fenced in for use of tenant of cottage. And in the
absence of the family the whole of the grounds are open to
tenant. When at home the family wish to be entirely private."

"I never saw this at all," said Selborne desperately. "My--I mean I was
told it was furnished lodgings. I am very sorry I have no servant and
no means of getting one. I will go back to London at once. I am sorry."

"The last train's gone," said Miss Sheepmarsh. "Mother, ask Mr Selborne
to come in, and I'll get him