Melrose frowned upon him.

“What does he want, eh?  More space?  Another room?  How many rooms do you suppose there are in this house, eh?” he asked in a voice half hectoring, half scornful.

“Scores, I daresay,” said Undershaw, quietly.  “But when I inquired of Dixon the other day whether it would be impossible to move Mr. Faversham into another room he told me that every hole and corner in the house was occupied by your collections, except two on the ground floor that you had never furnished.  We can’t put Mr. Faversham into an unfurnished room.  That which he occupies at present is, if I may speak plainly, rather barer of comforts than I like.”

“What on earth do you mean?”

“Well, when an invalid’s out of bed a pleasant and comfortable room is a help to him—­a few things to look at on the walls—­a change of chairs—­a bookcase or two—­and so on.  Mr. Faversham’s present room is—­I mean no offence—­as bare as a hospital ward, and not so cheerful.  Then as to the garden”—­Undershaw moved to a side window and pointed to the overgrown and gloomy wilderness outside—­“nurse and I have tried in vain to find a spot to which we could carry him.  I am afraid I must say that an ordinary lodging-house, with a bit of sunny lawn on which he could lie in his long chair, would suit him better, at his present stage, than this fine old house.”

“Luxury!” growled Melrose, “useless luxury and expense! that’s what every one’s after nowadays.  A man must be as cossu as a pea in a pod!  I’ll go and speak to him myself!”

And catching up round him the sort of Tennysonian cloak he habitually wore, even in the house and on a summer day, Melrose moved imperiously toward the door.

Undershaw stood in his way.

“Mr. Faversham is really not fit yet to discuss his own plans, except with his doctor, Mr. Melrose.  It would be both wise and kind of you to leave the decision of the matter to myself.”

Melrose stared at him.

“Come along here!” he said, roughly.  Opening the door of the library, he turned down the broad corridor to the right.  Undershaw followed unwillingly.  He was due at a consultation at Keswick, and had no time to waste with this old madman.

Melrose, still grumbling to himself, took a bunch of keys out of his pocket, and fitted one to the last door in the passage.  It opened with difficulty.  Undershaw saw dimly a large room, into which the light of a rainy June day penetrated through a few chinks in the barred shutters.  Melrose went to the windows, and with a physical strength which amazed his companion unshuttered and opened them all, helped by Undershaw.  One of them was a glass door leading down by steps to the garden outside.  Melrose dragged the heavy iron shutter which closed it open, and then, panting, looked round at his companion.

“Will this do for you?”

“Wonderful!” said Undershaw heartily, staring in amazement at the lovely tracery which incrusted the ceiling, at the carving of the doors, at the stately mantelpiece, with its marble caryatides, and at the Chinese wall-paper which covered the walls, its mandarins and pagodas, and its branching trees.  “I never saw such a place.  But what is my patient to do with an unfurnished room?”