It was her husband’s room.  Perhaps that formed the real source of all its charms, the essence or base of attraction that lay deep beneath visual presentations of chairs and fire-gleamings, or associations of ideas, or memories of past happiness.  Those were his books, behind the latticed glass—­the Elocution Manual, the Elements of Rhetoric, the ten-volumed People’s Encyclopedia, that he had read, and still read so assiduously.  It was here that he ate, drank, and mused.  Here he did all of his work that wasn’t real office work.  Here he received such visitors as head coachmen, stud-grooms, and the huntsmen.

In the cupboard with the jam-pots, there were two or three boxes of cigars, the famous sloe gin, and other liqueurs, for the entertainment of such highly esteemed visitors; and so long as one of them occupied the colossal armchair, her husband was quite a different Dale.  He was then such a much better listener than usual, so quick to see a joke and so easy to be tickled by it, so debonair that he would swallow almost insulting criticism of his favorite politicians.  As she thought of these things her eyelids fluttered and her lips parted mirthfully.  She never asked any questions as to Dale’s more secret methods of dealing with customers’ servants.  Obviously he got on well with them; and one might be quite certain that he did not offer any material compliments that were either traditionally illegitimate or open in the smallest degree to a suspicion of corrupt purpose.

And she thought admiringly that her man was really a very wonderful man.  Though so candid and straight, he could be grandly silent; he told his womankind all that he considered it good for them to know, and the rest he kept to himself; he had that quality of rulership without which manhood always seems deficient.

“Mummy,” said Rachel, “I do believe Mary is reading aloud.”

“Is she, darling?  Yes, I think she is.”

Through the kitchen door one could hear a monotonous murmur.

“D’you think she’s reading fairy tales?”

“Perhaps.  Would you like to listen to her?”

“Oh, no.  I’d sooner stay and help you, Mummy.”

“Then so you shall, my angel; and I thank you for preferring my company.”

Mavis, with the little girl at her knee, got to work.  She had purchased a large scrap-album, and was now to begin putting in her scraps.  For a long time she had collected interesting extracts from the newspapers, more especially portions of old numbers of the Rodhaven Courier which contained her husband’s name.

“Here, Rachel, we’ll commence with this;” and she started the book with a long account of the ceremonial opening of the Barradine Orphanage.  The report of a speech by “Mr. Dale of Vine-Pits Farm” at a political meeting was the second item, and other gems followed fast.

Rachel assisted from time to time, by twice upsetting the paste pot, tearing a good many cuttings, and finally by tilting the heavy album off Mummy’s lap to the floor.