or which led into an inner room.

"Let me get you some tea, Philip," she begged. "You look so cold and
wet."

"Stay here, please," he insisted.

She paused reluctantly. There was a curious lack of anything peremptory
in his manner, yet somehow, although she would have given the world
to have passed for a few moments into the shelter of the little kitchen
beyond, she was impelled to do as he bade her.

"Don't be silly, Philip," she said petulantly. "You know you want some
tea, and so do I. Sit down, please, and make yourself comfortable. Why
didn't you let me know you were coming?"

"Perhaps it would have been better," he agreed quietly. "However, since I
am here, answer my question."

She drew a little breath. After all, although she was lacking in any real
strength of character, she was filled with a certain compensatory
doggedness. His challenge was there to be faced. There was no way out of
it. She would have lied willingly enough but for the sheer futility of
falsehood. She commenced the task of bracing herself for the struggle.

"You had better," she said, "frame your question a little more exactly. I
will then try to answer it."

He was stung by her altered demeanour, embarrassed by an avalanche of
words. A hundred questions were burning upon his lips. It was by a great
effort of self-control that he remained coherent.

"The last time I visited you," he began, "was three months ago. Your
cottage then was furnished as one would expect it to be furnished. You
had a deal dresser, a deal table, one rather hard easy-chair and a very
old wicker one. You had, if I remember rightly, a strip of linoleum upon
the floor, and a single rug. Your flowers were from the hedges and your
fruit from the one apple tree in the garden behind. Your clothes--am I
mistaken about your clothes or are you dressed more expensively?"

"I am dressed more expensively," she admitted.

"You and I both know the value of these things," he went on, with a
little sweep of the hand. "We know the value of them because we were once
accustomed to them, because we have both since experienced the passionate
craving for them or the things they represent. Chippendale furniture, a
Turkey carpet, roses in January, hothouse fruit, Bartolozzi prints, do
not march with an income of fifty pounds a year."

"They do not," she assented equably. "All the things which you see here
and which you have mentioned, are presents."

His forefinger shot out with