‘Dinner’ was it called?  Why it was nearly eight o’clock; and preparations for bed seemed a more natural employment than dressing at this hour of night.  All the dressing she could manage was the placing of a red damask rose or two in the band of her grey stuff gown, there being a great nosegay of choice autumnal flowers on the toilette- table.  She did try the effect of another crimson rose in her black hair, just above her ear; it was very pretty, but too coquettish, and so she put it back again.  The dark-oak panels and wainscoting of the whole house seemed to glow in warm light; there were so many fires in different rooms, in the hall, and even one on the landing of the staircase.  Mr. Preston must have heard her step, for he met her in the hall, and led her into a small drawing-room, with closed folding-doors on one side, opening into the larger drawing-room, as he told her.  This room into which she entered reminded her a little of Hamley—­yellow-satin upholstery of seventy or a hundred years ago, all delicately kept and scrupulously clean; great Indian cabinets, and china jars, emitting spicy odours; a large blazing fire, before which her father stood in his morning dress, grave and thoughtful, as he had been all day.

’This room is that which Lady Harriet uses when she comes here with her father for a day or two,’ said Mr. Preston.  And Molly tried to save her father by being ready to talk herself.

‘Does she often come here?’

’Not often.  But I fancy she likes being here when she does.  Perhaps she finds it an agreeable change after the more formal life she leads at the Towers.’

‘I should think it was a very pleasant house to stay at,’ said Molly, remembering the look of warm comfort that pervaded it.  But a little to her dismay Mr. Preston seemed to take it as a compliment to himself.

’I was afraid a young lady like you might perceive all the incongruities of a bachelor’s home.  I am very much obliged to you, Miss Gibson.  In general I live pretty much in the room in which we shall dine; and I have a sort of agent’s office in which I keep books and papers, and receive callers on business.’

Then they went in to dinner.  Molly thought everything that was served was delicious, and cooked to the point of perfection; but they did not seem to satisfy Mr. Preston, who apologized to his guests several times for the bad cooking of this dish, or the omission of a particular sauce to that; always referring to bachelor’s housekeeping, bachelor’s this and bachelor’s that, till Molly grew quite impatient at the word.  Her father’s depression, which was still continuing and rendering him very silent, made her uneasy; yet she wished to conceal it from Mr. Preston; and so she talked away, trying to obviate the sort of personal bearing which their host would give to everything.  She did not know when to leave the gentlemen, but her father made a sign to her; and she was conducted