for the physically perfect human is a born anything physical you please.  But he had not played for a long time.  Half-crowns had been very scarce on this last disastrous tour, and comrades who included golf in their horizon of human possibilities had been rarer.  When would he play again?  Heaven knew!  So he looked wistfully, too, at his set of golf clubs.  He remembered how he had bought them—­one by one.

“Do you want this on the dressing table?” The nurse held up a little oblong case.

It was his make-up box, luckily tied round with string.

“Good heavens, no!” he exclaimed.  He wished he could have told her to burn it.  He felt happier when all his belongings were stowed away out of sight and the old trunk and portmanteau hauled out of the room.

Colonel Winwood came home and asked his sister pertinent questions.  He was a bald, sad-looking man with a long grizzling moustache that drooped despondently.  But he had a square, obstinate chin, and his eyes, though they seldom smiled, were keen and direct, like Miss Winwood’s.  Romance had passed him by long since.  He did not believe in paragons.

“I gather, my dear Ursula,” said he in a dry voice, “that our guest is an orphan, of good Italian family, brought up in England by a guardian now dead who lived in France.  Also that he is of prepossessing exterior, of agreeable manners, of considerable cultivation, and apparently of no acquaintance.  But what I can’t make out is:  what he does for a living, how he came to be half-starved on his walking tour—­the doctor said so, you remember—­ where he was going from and where he is going to when he leaves our house.  In fact, he seems to be a very vague and mysterious person, of whom, for a woman of your character and peculiar training, you know singularly little.”

Miss Winwood replied that she could not pry into the lad’s private affairs.  Her brother retorted that a youth, in his physically helpless condition, who was really ingenuous, would have poured out his life’s history into the ears of so sympathetic a woman, and have bored her to tears with the inner secrets of his soul.

“He has high aspirations.  He has told me of them.  But he hasn’t bored me a bit,” said Ursula.

“What does he aspire to?”

“What does any brilliant young fellow of two or three and twenty aspire to?  Anything, everything.  He has only to find his path.”

“Yes, but what is his path?”

“I wish you weren’t so much like Uncle Edward, James,” said Ursula.

“He’s a damned clever old man,” said Colonel Winwood, “and I wish he had stayed here long enough to be able to put our young friend through a searching cross-examination.”

Ursula lifted her finger-bowl an inch from the doiley and carefully put it down again.  It was the evening of Colonel Winwood’s arrival, and they were lingering over coffee in the great, picture-hung and softly lighted dining room.  Having fixed the bowl in the exact centre of the doiley, she flashed round on her brother.  “My dear James, do you think I’m an idiot?”