Her colour grew warmer, but this time from a sense of relief, because he was evidently not as displeased as he might have been.

“I took a long walk this morning,” she said.  “I went through the High Wood and came out by the place called The Kennel Farm.  I was thinking a good deal of poor Mrs. Osborn because I had heard from her this morning, and she seemed so unhappy.  I was looking at her letter again when I turned into the lane leading to the house.  Then I saw that no one was living there, and I could not help going in to look—­it is such a delightful old building, with its queer windows and chimneys, and the ivy which seems never to have been clipped.  The house is so roomy and comfortable—­I peeped in at windows and saw big fireplaces with benches inside them.  It seems a pity that such a place should not be lived in and—­well, I thought how kind it would be of you to lend it to the Osborns while they are in England.”

“It would indeed be kind,” remarked his lordship, without fervour.

Her momentary excitement led Emily to take the liberty of putting out her hand to touch his.  She always felt as if connubial familiarities were rather a liberty; at least she had not, so far, been able to overcome a feeling rather of that order.  And this was another thing Walderhurst by no means disliked.  He himself was not aware that he was a man with a good deal of internal vanity which enjoyed soothing food.  In fact, he had not a sufficiently large brain to know very much about himself or to be able to analyse his reasons for liking or disliking people or things.  He thought he knew his reasons for his likes and dislikes, but he was frequently very far away from the clear, impersonal truth about them.  Only the brilliant logic and sensitiveness of genius really approaches knowledge of itself, and as a result it is usually extremely unhappy.  Walderhurst was never unhappy.  He was sometimes dissatisfied or annoyed, but that was as far as his emotions went.

Being pleased by the warm touch of Emily’s hand, he patted her wrist and looked agreeably marital.

“The place was built originally for a family huntsman, and the pack was kept there.  That is why it is called The Kennel Farm.  When the last lease fell out it remained unlet because I don’t care for an ordinary tenant.  It’s the kind of house that is becoming rare, and the bumpkin farmer and his family don’t value antiquities.”

“If it were furnished as it could be furnished,” said Emily, “it would be beautiful.  One can get old things in London if one can afford them.  I’ve seen them when I’ve been shopping.  They are not cheap, but you can get them if you really search.”

“Would you like to furnish it?” Walderhurst inquired.  The consciousness that he could, if he chose, do the utmost thing of its kind in this way, at the moment assumed a certain proportion of interest to him under the stimulation of the wonder and delight which leaped into Emily’s eyes as the possibility confronted her.  Having been born without imagination, his wealth had not done for him anything out of the ordinary every-day order.