“A very interesting old place, built by some man with a real fine taste!  As far as I can see, it will hold my collections very well.”

The new owner of Threlfall Tower was standing in the drawing-room with his back to the fire, alternately looking about him with an eager curiosity, and rubbing his hands in what appeared to be satisfaction.  The agent surveyed him.

Edmund Melrose at that moment—­some thirty years ago—­was a tall and remarkably handsome man of fifty, with fine aquiline features deeply grooved and cut, a delicate nostril, and a domed forehead over which fell thick locks of black hair.  He looked what he was—­a man of wealth and family, spoilt by long years of wandering and irresponsible living, during which an inherited eccentricity and impatience of restraint had developed into traits and manners which seemed as natural to himself as they were monstrous in the sight of others.  He had so far treated the agent with the scantest civility during their progress through the house; and Tyson’s northern blood had boiled more than once.

But the inspection of the house had apparently put its owner in a good temper, and he seemed to be now more genially inclined.  He lit a cigarette and offered Tyson one.  Upstairs the child could be heard wailing.  Its mother and nurse were no doubt ministering to it.  Mrs. Melrose, so far as Tyson had observed her arrival, had cast hasty and shivering looks round the comfortlessness of the hall and drawing-room; had demanded loudly that some of the cases encumbering the hall and passages should be removed or unpacked at once, and had then bade Mrs. Dixon take her and the child to their rooms, declaring that she was nearly dead and would sup upstairs and go to bed.  She seemed to Tyson to be a rather pretty woman, very small and dark, with a peevish, excitable manner; and it was evident that her husband paid her little or no attention.

“I can’t altogether admire your taste in carpets, Tyson,” said Melrose, presently, with a patronizing smile, his eyes fastening on the monstrosity in front of him.

The young man flushed.

“Your cheque, sir, was not a big one, and I had to make it go a long way.  It was no good trying the expensive shops.”

“Oh, well!—­I daresay Mrs. Melrose can put up with it.  And what about that sofa?” The speaker tried it—­“Hm—­not exactly Sybaritic—­but very fair, very fair!  Mrs. Melrose will get used to it.”

“Mrs. Melrose, sir, I fear, will find this place a bit lonesome, and out of the way.”

“Well, it is not exactly Piccadilly,” laughed Melrose.  “But a woman that has her child is provided for.  How can she be dull?  I ask you”—­he repeated in a louder and rather hectoring voice—­“how can she possibly be dull?”

Tyson murmured something inaudible, adding to it—­“And you, sir?  Are you a sportsman?”

Melrose threw up his hands contemptuously.  “The usual British question!  What barbarians we are!  It may no doubt seem to you extraordinary—­but I really never want to kill anything—­except sometimes, perhaps,—­a dealer.  My amusements”—­he pointed to two large cases at the end of the room—­“are pursued indoors.”