Tallente looked at them a little wearily, impressed with the allegorical significance of his position.  It seemed to him that he was in the land to which he belonged, the barren land of desolation and failure.  The triumphs of the past failed for a moment to thrill his pulses.  The memory of his well-lived and successful life brought him not an atom of consolation.  The present was all that mattered, and the present had brought him to the gates of failure.—­After all, what did a man work for, he wondered?  What was the end and aim of it all?  Life at Martinhoe Manor, with a faithful but terrified manservant, bookshelves ready to afford him the phantasmal satisfaction of another man’s thoughts, sea and winds, beauties of landscape and colour, to bring him to the threshold of an epicurean pleasure which needed yet that one pulsating link with humanity to yield the full meed of joy and content.  It all came back to the old story of man’s weakness, he thought, as he rose to his feet, his teeth almost savagely clenching his pipe.  He had become a conqueror of circumstances only to become a victim of the primitive needs of life.

At about a quarter of a mile from the house, the road branched away to the left to disappear suddenly over the edge of a drop of many hundreds of feet.  Tallente passed through a plain white gate, down an avenue of dwarfed oaks, to emerge into an unexpectedly green meadow, cloven through the middle with a straight white avenue.  Through another gate he passed into a drive which led through flaming banks of rhododendrons, now a little past their full glory, to the front of the house, a long and amplified building which, by reason of many additions, had become an abode of some pretensions.  A manservant answered his ring at once and led him into a cool, white stone hall, the walls of which were hung from floor to ceiling with hunting and sporting trophies.

“Her ladyship is still at the farm, sir,” the man announced.  “She said if you came before she returned would you care to step round?”

Tallente signified his assent and was led through the house, across a more extensive garden, from which a marvellous view of the valley and the climbing slopes behind held him spellbound, by the side of a small, quaintly shaped church, to a circular group of buildings of considerable extent.  The man conducted him to the front of a white-plastered cottage covered with roses, and knocked at the door.

“This is her ladyship’s office, sir,” he announced.

Lady Jane’s invitation to enter was clear and friendly.  Tallente found her seated behind a desk, talking to a tall man in riding clothes, who swung around to eye the newcomer with a curiosity which seemed somehow not altogether friendly.  Lady Jane held out her hand and smiled delightfully.

“Do come in, Mr. Tallente,” she begged.  “I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you.  Now you will believe, won’t you, that I am not altogether an idler in life?  This is my agent, Mr. Segerson—­Mr. Tallente.”