“You will arrange your collections?”

“Perhaps, yes—­perhaps, no.  When I want something to do, I may begin unpacking.  But I shall be in no hurry.  Any way it would take me months.”

“Is it mostly furniture you have sent home, sir?”

“Oh, Lord, no!  Clocks, watches, ironwork, china, stuffs, brasses—­something of everything.  A few pictures—­no great shakes—­as yet.  But some day I may begin to buy them in earnest.  Meanwhile, Tyson—­economy!”—­he lifted a monitory finger.  “All my income is required—­let me inform you at once—­for what is my hobby—­my passion—­my mania, if you like—­the collecting of works of art.  I have gradually reduced my personal expenditures to a minimum, and it must be the same with this estate.  No useless outlay of any kind.  Every sixpence will be important to me.”

“Some of the cottages are in a very bad state, Mr. Melrose.”

“Paradises, I’ll be bound, compared to some of the places I have been living among, in Italy.  Don’t encourage people to complain; that’s the great point.  Encourage them, my dear sir, to make the best of things—­to take life cheerfully.”

Certain cottages on the estate presented themselves to the agent’s mind.  He lifted his eyebrows imperceptibly, and let the subject drop, inquiring instead whether his employer meant to reside at the Tower during the whole or the greater part of the year.

Melrose smiled.  “I shall always spend the winter here—­arranging—­cataloguing—­writing.”  Again the cigarette, held in very long, thin fingers, described a wide semicircle in the dim light, as though to indicate the largeness of the speaker’s thoughts.  “But in March or April, I take flight from here—­I return to the chase.  To use a hunting metaphor, in the summer I kill—­and store.  In the winter I consume—­ruminate—­chew the cud.  Do you follow my metaphor?”

“Not precisely,” said Tyson, looking at him with a quiet antagonism.  “I suppose you mean you buy things and send them home?”

Melrose nodded.  “Every dealer in Europe knows me by now—­and expects me.  They put aside their best things for me.  And I prefer to hunt in summer—­even in the hot countries.  Heat has no terror, for me; and there are fewer of your damned English and American tourists about.”

“I see.”  Tyson hesitated a moment, then said:  “And I suppose, sir, Mrs. Melrose goes with you?”

“Not at all!  You cannot go dragging babies about Europe any more than is absolutely necessary.  Mrs. Melrose will make her home here, and will no doubt become very much attached to this charming old house.  By the way, what neighbours are there?”

“Practically none, sir.”

“But there is a church—­and I suppose a parson?”

“Not resident.  The clergyman from Gimmers Wick comes over alternate Sundays.”

“H’m.  Then I don’t see why I was asked to contribute to church repairs.  What’s the good of keeping the place up at all?”