And sometimes, but not as expecting a reply, Oleron stood still and called softly.  Once or twice he called “Romilly!” and then waited; but more often his whispering did not take the shape of a name.

There was one spot in particular of his abode that he began to haunt with increasing persistency.  This was just within the opening of his bedroom door.  He had discovered one day that by opening every door in his place (always excepting the outer one, which he only opened unwillingly) and by placing himself on this particular spot, he could actually see to a greater or less extent into each of his five rooms without changing his position.  He could see the whole of his sitting-room, all of his bedroom except the part hidden by the open door, and glimpses of his kitchen, bathroom, and of his rarely used study.  He was often in this place, breathless and with his finger on his lip.  One day, as he stood there, he suddenly found himself wondering whether this Madley, of whom the vicar had spoken, had ever discovered the strategic importance of the bedroom entry.

Light, moreover, now caused him greater disquietude than did darkness.  Direct sunlight, of which, as the sun passed daily round the house, each of his rooms had now its share, was like a flame in his brain; and even diffused light was a dull and numbing ache.  He began, at successive hours of the day, one after another, to lower his crimson blinds.  He made short and daring excursions in order to do this; but he was ever careful to leave his retreat open, in case he should have sudden need of it.  Presently this lowering of the blinds had become a daily methodical exercise, and his rooms, when he had been his round, had the blood-red half-light of a photographer’s darkroom.

One day, as he drew down the blind of his little study and backed in good order out of the room again, he broke into a soft laugh.

“That bilks Mr. Barrett!” he said; and the baffling of Barrett continued to afford him mirth for an hour.

But on another day, soon after, he had a fright that left him trembling also for an hour.  He had seized the cord to darken the window over the seat in which he had found the harp-bag, and was standing with his back well protected in the embrasure, when he thought he saw the tail of a black-and-white check skirt disappear round the corner of the house.  He could not be sure—­had he run to the window of the other wall, which was blinded, the skirt must have been already past—­but he was almost sure that it was Elsie.  He listened in an agony of suspense for her tread on the stairs....

But no tread came, and after three or four minutes he drew a long breath of relief.

“By Jove, but that would have compromised me horribly!” he muttered....

And he continued to mutter from time to time, “Horribly compromising ... no woman would stand that ... not any kind of woman ... oh, compromising in the extreme!”