Presently, he threw open the door he had unlocked the week before, Undershaw stepped into a room no less attractive than the gallery outside.  A carpet of old Persian, of a faded blue—­a few cabinets spaced along the walls—­a few bookcases full of books old and new—­a pillared French clock on the mantelpiece—­a comfortable modern sofa, and some armchairs—­branches of white rhododendron in a great enamelled vase—­and two oval portraits on the walls, a gentleman in red, and a gentleman in blue, both pastels by Latour—­in some such way one might have catalogued the contents of the room.  But no catalogue could have rendered its effect on Undershaw, who was not without artistic leanings of a mild kind himself—­an effect as of an old debt paid, an injustice remedied, a beautiful creation long abused and desecrated, restored to itself.  The room was at last what it had been meant to be; and after a hundred and fifty years the thought of its dead architect had found fruition.

But this was not all.  The garden door stood open, and outside, as he walked up to it, Undershaw saw a stretch of smooth grass, with groups of trees—­the survivors of a ragged army—­encircling it; a blaze of flowers; and beyond the low parapet wall of lichened stone, from which also a dense thicket of yew and laurel had been removed, the winding course of the river, seventy feet below the Tower, showed blue under a clear sky.  A deck chair stood on the grass and a garden table beside it, holding an ash-tray and cigarettes.

Undershaw, after a pause of wonder, warmly expressed his admiration.  Melrose received it ungraciously.

“Why, the things were all in the house.  Clumsy brutes!—­Barclay’s men would have broken the half of them, if I hadn’t been here,” he said, morosely.  “Now will you tell Mr. Faversham this room is at his disposal, or shall I?”

* * * * *

Half an hour later Faversham, assisted by his nurse, had limped along the corridor, and was sitting beside the glass door in an utter yet not unpleasant bewilderment.  What on earth had made the strange old fellow take such an odd fancy to him?  He had had singularly little “spoiling” in his orphaned life so far, except occasionally from “Uncle Mackworth.”  The experience was disturbing, yet certainly not disagreeable.

He must of course stay on for a while, now that such extraordinary pains had been taken for his comfort.  It would be nothing less than sheer ingratitude were he not to do so.  At the same time, his temperament was cautious; he was no green youngster; and he could not but ask himself, given Melrose’s character and reputation, what ulterior motive there might be behind a generosity so eccentric.

Meanwhile Melrose, in high spirits, and full of complaisance, now that the hated Undershaw had departed, walked up and down as usual, talking and smoking.  It was evident that the whole process of unpacking his treasures had put him in a glow of excitement.  The sudden interruption of habit had acted with stimulating power, his mind, like his home, had shaken off some of its dust.  He talked about the pictures and furniture he had unearthed; the Latour pastels, the Gobelins in the gallery; rambling through scenes and incidents of the past, in a vivacious, egotistical monologue, which kept Faversham amused.