life of generations moving among and gradually adapting to itself a number of lovely things.  Tatham brought up amid the surroundings of Duddon was scornfully conscious of the bric-a-brac element in the show, as he stood contemplating Melrose’s latest performance.  Nevertheless a fine taste had presided both at the original selection of the things shown, and at the arrangement of them in the stately gallery, which both harmonized and displayed them.

“There’s not a thing yo’ see, my lord, that hasna been here—­i’ this house—­for years and years!” said Dixon, pointing a shaky finger at the cabinets on either side.  “There’s soom o’ them has been i’ their packing-cases ever sin’ I can remember, an’ the carpets rolled up aw deep in dust.  And there’s not a thing been unpacked now i’ the house itsel’, for fear o’ t’ dust, an’ Mr. Faversham.  The men carried it aw oot o’ that door”—­he pointed to the far western end of the gallery—­“an’ iverything was doon out o’ doors, all t’ carpets beaten an’ aw, where Mr. Faversham couldna hear a sound.  An’ yesterday Muster Melrose and Muster Faversham—­we browt him in his wheeled chair yo’ unnerstan’—­fixed up a lot o’ things together.  We havna nailed doon th’ matting yet, for fear o’t’ noise.  But Muster Faversham says noo he won’t mind it.”

“Is Mr. Faversham staying on some time?”

“I canno’ say, my lord, I’m sure,” was the cautious reply.  “But they do say ‘at he’s not to tak’ a journey for a while yet.”

Tatham’s curiosity was hot within him, but his very dislike of Melrose restrained him from indulging it.  He followed Dixon through the gallery in silence.

There was no one in the new sitting-room.  But outside on some newly laid grass, Tatham perceived the invalid on a deck chair, with a table holding books and cigarettes beside him.

Dixon had departed.  Faversham offered cigarettes.

“Thank you,” said Tatham, “I have my own.”

And he produced his case with a smile, handing it to Faversham.

“A drink?”

Tatham declined again.  As he sat there smoking, his hat on the back of his head, and his ruddy, good-humoured face beaming on his companion, it did not occur to Faversham that Tatham was thereby refusing the “salt” of an enemy.

“They’ll bring some tea when Mrs. and Miss Penfold come,” said Faversham.

Tatham nodded, then grinned irrepressibly.

“I say!  I told Miss Penfold she’d find you in ‘piggery.’”

Faversham’s dark face showed a certain discomposure.  Physical delicacy had given a peculiar distinction to the gaunt black and white of his eyes, hair, and complexion, and to the thinness of his long frame, so that Tatham, who would have said before seeing him that he remembered him perfectly, found himself looking at him from time to time in surprise.  As to his surroundings, Faversham appeared not only willing but anxious to explain.

“It’s a queer business,” he said frankly.  “I can assure I you I never asked for anything, never wished for anything of the sort.  Everything was arranged for me to go to Keswick—­to a home there—­when—­this happened.”