left in order to strike the lyre placed above the dial; on the other side, a Cupid listened attentive for the sound of the hour, presumably his hour.  There was a little lyrical inevitableness in the lines of this clock, and Owen could not come into the room without admiring it.  On the chimney piece there were two bowls filled with violets, and the flowers partly hid the beautiful Worcester blue and the golden pheasants.  And on either side of the clock were two Chelsea groups, factitious bowers made out of dark green shell-like leaves, in which were seated a lady in a flowered silk and a beribboned shepherd playing a flute.

They had spent long mornings seeking a real Sheraton sofa, with six or eight chairs to match.  For a long time they were unfortunate, but they had happened upon two sofas, certainly of the period, probably made by Sheraton himself.  A hundred and twenty years had given a beautiful lustre to the satinwood and to the painted garlands of flowers, and the woven cane had attained a rich brown and gold; and the chairs that went with the sofa were works of art, so happy were the proportions of their thin legs and backs, and in the middle of the backs the circle of harmonious cane was in exquisite proportion.

For a long while the question for immediate decision had become what carpet should be there.  Evelyn had happened upon an old Aubusson carpet, a little threadbare, but the dealer had assured her that it could be made as good as new, and she had telegraphed to Owen to go to see its pale roses and purple architecture.  He had written to her that its harmony was as florid, and yet as classical as an aria by Mozart.  He was still more pleased when he saw it down, and he had spent hours thinking of what pictures would suit it, would carry on its colour and design.  The Boucher drawing which he had bought at Christie’s had seemed to him the very thing.  He had brought it home in a cab.

She was proud of her room, but she was doubtful if it would please Ulick, and was curious to hear what he would think of it.  She remembered that Owen had said that such exquisite exteriorities were only possible in a pagan century, when man is content to look no farther than this strip of existence for the reason of his existence and his birthright.  And while waiting for Ulick she wondered what his rooms were like, and if she would ever go there.  She expected him about five, and she sat waiting for him by her tea-table amid the eighteenth century furniture, a little to the right of the Boucher.

She watched him as he came towards her, expecting and hoping to see him cast a quick glance at the picture.  He shook hands with her vaguely, and sat down on a Sheraton chair and fixed his eyes on the Aubusson carpet.  She thought for some time that he was examining it, but at last the truth dawned; he did not see it at all, he was maybe a thousand years away, lost in some legendary past.  Had she not seen him before pass