Two white-haired ladies received him in a shady, old-fashioned room with a low ceiling.  There was a smell of flowers, but it was faint, and he thought it harmonized with the subdued lighting of the room.  A horizontal piano stood in a corner and the dark, polished rosewood had dull reflections; some music lay about, but not in disorder, and he noted the delicate modeling of the cabinet with diamond panes it had been taken from.  He knew nothing about furniture, but he had an eye for line and remarked the taste that characterized the rest of the articles.  There were a few landscapes in water-color, and one or two pieces of old china, of a deep blue that struck the right note of contrast with the pale-yellow wall.

Festing felt that the house had an influence; a gracious influence perhaps, but vaguely antagonistic to him.  He had thought of a house as a place in which one ate and slept, but did not expect it to mold one’s character.  Surroundings like this were no doubt Helen Dalton’s proper environment, but he came from the outside turmoil, where men sweated and struggled and took hard knocks.

In the meantime, he talked to and studied the two ladies.  Although they had white hair, they were younger than he thought at first and much alike.  It was as if they had faded prematurely from breathing too rarefied an atmosphere and shutting out rude but bracing blasts.  Still they had a curious charm, and he had felt a hint of warmth in Mrs. Dalton’s welcome that puzzled him.

“We have been expecting you.  Bob told us you would come,” she said in a low, sweet voice, and added with a smile:  “I wanted to meet you.”

Festing wondered what Bob had said about him, but for a time they tactfully avoided the object of his visit and asked him questions about his journey.  Then Mrs. Dalton got up.

“Helen is in the garden.  Shall we look for her?”

She took him across the lawn to a bench beneath a copper beech, and Festing braced himself when a girl got up.  She wore white and the shadow of the leaves checkered the plain dress.  He noted the unconscious grace of her pose as she turned towards him, and her warm color, which seemed to indicate a sanguine temperament.  Helen Dalton was all that he had thought, and something more.  He knew her level, penetrating glance, but she had a virility he had not expected.  The girl was somehow stronger than he portrait.

“Perhaps I had better leave you to talk to Mr. Festing,” Mrs. Dalton said presently and moved away.

Helen waited with a calm that Festing thought must cost her much, and moving a folding chair, he sat down opposite.

“I understand Bob told you I would come,” he said.  “You see, he is a friend of mine.”

“Yes,” she replied with a faint sparkle in her eyes.  “He hinted that you would explain matters.  I think he meant you would make some defense for him.”

Festing noted that her voice was low like her mother’s, but it had a firmer note.  He could be frank with her, but there was a risk that he might say too much.