respected.  At Windygates, as elsewhere, we believed History to be high literature, because it assumed to be true to Authorities (of which we knew little)—­and Fiction to be low literature, because it attempted to be true to Nature (of which we knew less).  At Windygates as elsewhere, we were always more or less satisfied with ourselves, if we were publicly discovered consulting our History—­and more or less ashamed of ourselves, if we were publicly discovered devouring our Fiction.  An architectural peculiarity in the original arrangement of the library favored the development of this common and curious form of human stupidity.  While a row of luxurious arm-chairs, in the main thoroughfare of the room, invited the reader of solid literature to reveal himself in the act of cultivating a virtue, a row of snug little curtained recesses, opening at intervals out of one of the walls, enabled the reader of light literature to conceal himself in the act of indulging a vice.  For the rest, all the minor accessories of this spacious and tranquil place were as plentiful and as well chosen as the heart could desire.  And solid literature and light literature, and great writers and small, were all bounteously illuminated alike by a fine broad flow of the light of heaven, pouring into the room through windows that opened to the floor.

It was the fourth day from the day of Lady Lundie’s garden-party, and it wanted an hour or more of the time at which the luncheon-bell usually rang.

The guests at Windygates were most of them in the garden, enjoying the morning sunshine, after a prevalent mist and rain for some days past.  Two gentlemen (exceptions to the general rule) were alone in the library.  They were the two last gentlemen in the would who could possibly be supposed to have any legitimate motive for meeting each other in a place of literary seclusion.  One was Arnold Brinkworth, and the other was Geoffrey Delamayn.

They had arrived together at Windygates that morning.  Geoffrey had traveled from London with his brother by the train of the previous night.  Arnold, delayed in getting away at his own time, from his own property, by ceremonies incidental to his position which were not to be abridged without giving offense to many worthy people—­had caught the passing train early that morning at the station nearest to him, and had returned to Lady Lundie’s, as he had left Lady Lundie’s, in company with his friend.

After a short preliminary interview with Blanche, Arnold had rejoined Geoffrey in the safe retirement of the library, to say what was still left to be said between them on the subject of Anne.  Having completed his report of events at Craig Fernie, he was now naturally waiting to hear what Geoffrey had to say on his side.  To Arnold’s astonishment, Geoffrey coolly turned away to leave the library without uttering a word.

Arnold stopped him without ceremony.

“Not quite so fast, Geoffrey,” he said.  “I have an interest in Miss Silvester’s welfare as well as in yours.  Now you are back again in Scotland, what are you going to do?”