He did not rush brutally into business, as a man of coarser fibre might have done.  He removed his gloves, adjusted his eye-glass and admired the view.  He shrank from the suggestion that he had come to “take possession,” but clearly he could not take possession of the view.  It was a safe and soothing topic.

“You have a very glorious outlook here, Miss Harden.”

Then Mr. Pilkington perceived a shade.  Miss Harden’s outlook was not glorious.

By an almost visible recoil from his own blunder he strove to convey an impression of excessive delicacy.

“Wot very exceptional weather we are enjoying—­” Perceiving another and a finer shade (for evidently Miss Harden was not enjoying the weather, or indeed anything else) Mr. Pilkington again shifted his ground.  He spoke of books.  He noticed with approval the arrangement of the library.  He admired the Harden taste in costly bindings, as if he were by no means personally concerned with any of these things.  And thus by a delicate and imperceptible transition, he slid into his theme.

“Now, as regards this—­this sale, Miss Harden.  I hope you understand—­”

“I understand that you are my father’s chief creditor, and that the sale is necessary.”

“Quite so.  But I’m most awfully sorry for the necessity As for time—­I don’t want you to feel that you’re pressed or hurried in any way.”  Mr. Pilkington’s eyes gazed up at her under their great glasses, humid and immense.  His lower lip drooped in an uncertain manner.  He had a great deal of nice feeling about him, had Dicky.

“I hope those men aren’t making a nuisance of themselves They’ve had strict orders to keep in the background I’m orf’ly upset,” said Mr. Pilkington in a thick emotional voice, “about this affair; and I want to consider you, Miss Harden, in every possible way.”

“You are very kind.  But I would rather you didn’t consider me, in any way at all.”

As she said this Mr. Rickman looked at her with a grave smile, conveying (behind Mr. Pilkington’s back) an unmistakable warning.

Mr. Pilkington smiled too, a large and fluttering smile as of one indulgent to any little attempt at brilliance on the part of a young lady under a cloud.  Lucia swept him and his smile with her long and steady gaze, a gaze which made Dicky exceedingly uncomfortable.

“I think if you have any arrangements to make, you had better see my solicitor.”

“I have an appointment,” said Dicky, not without a certain dignity, “with Mr. Schofield, to-morrow morning.”

“Then I suppose what you want now is to look over the house?”

The question and the gaze were so direct that Dicky (who had meant to amble delicately round that point for another quarter of an hour) lost his head, dropped his eye-glass, and fairly let himself go.

“Well, perhaps as I am here, I’d better ’ave a look round.  Of course—­if—­if it’s in any way inconvenient—­”