She paused and looked at him wistfully.  As though interpreting his nod as encouragement, she went on—.

“Mr. Austin Turold and his son have been inmates of my household for the last six weeks.  Mr. Robert Turold arranged it with me beforehand.  I had never done anything of the kind before, but our means—­my husband’s and mine—­are insufficient for the stress of these times.  After all, people must live.”

Mr. Brimsdown’s slight shake of the head seemed to imply that this last statement was by no means an incontrovertible proposition, but Mrs. Brierly was not looking at him.

“Therefore, to oblige Mr. Turold we decided to afford hospitality to his brother and son.  The terms were favourable, and they were gentlefolk.  These things counted, and the money helped.  But if I had only known—­if I could have foreseen ...”

“Mr. Turold’s death?” said Mr. Brimsdown, filling in the pause.

“I mean—­everything,” she retorted a little wildly.  “My name is well known.  I was in Society once.  There is my husband’s reputation as an artist to be considered.  I would not be talked about for worlds.  I acted against my husband’s advice in this matter—­in taking Mr. Turold and his son.  My husband said it was a degradation to take in lodgers.  I pointed out that they were gentlefolk.  There is a difference.  I wish now that I had listened to my husband’s advice.”

Mr. Brimsdown listened with patient immobility.  His long experience of female witnesses withheld him from any effort to hasten the flow of his companion’s story.

“They were very nice and quiet—­particularly Mr. Austin Turold,” she went on.  “The son was more silent and reserved, but we saw very little of him—­he was out so much.  But Mr. Turold did my husband good—­his breeding and conversation were just what he needed to lift him out of himself.  A man goes to seed in the country, Mr. Brimsdown, no matter how intellectual he may be.  Nature is delightful, but a man needs to be near Piccadilly to keep smart.  Cornwall is so very far away—­so remote—­and Cornish rocks are dreadfully severe on good clothes.  I am not complaining, you understand.  We had to come to Cornwall.  It was inevitable—­for us.  No English artist is considered anything until he has painted a picture of the Land’s End or Newquay.  The Channel Islands—­or Devon—­is not quite the same thing.  Not such a distinctive hallmark.  So we came to Cornwall, and my husband went to seed.  That was why I welcomed Mr. Turold’s conversation for him.  It did him good.  My husband said so himself.  He derived inspiration—­artistic inspiration—­from Mr. Turold’s talk.  He conceived a picture—­’Land of Hope and Glory’ it was to be called—­of a massive figure of Britannia, standing on Land’s End, defying the twin demons of Bolshevism and Labour Unrest with a trident.  He was working at it with extraordinary rapidity—­when this happened.

“On the day of his brother’s death we did not see much of Mr. Austin Turold.  There was Mrs. Turold’s funeral in the afternoon, and when he came home I thought he would prefer to be left to himself.