‘Purely mechanical!’ said Mr Brindley with cruel curtness.

What seemed to me singular was that the relations which had existed between Miss Annie Brett and Simon Fuge appeared to have no interest whatever for Mr Brindley.  He had not even referred to them.

‘You were just beginning to draw her out,’ I ventured.

‘No,’ he replied; ’I thought I’d just see what she’d say.  No one ever did draw that woman out.’

I had completely lost my vision of her in the boat, but somehow that declaration of his, ‘no one ever did draw that woman out’, partially restored the vision to me.  It seemed to invest her with agreeable mystery.

‘And the other sister—­Mrs Colclough?’ I questioned.

‘I’m taking you to see her as fast as I can,’ he answered.  His tone implied further:  ’I’ve just humoured one of your whims, now for the other.’

‘But tell me something about her.’

’She’s the best bridge-player—­woman, that is—­in Bursley.  But she will only play every other night for fear the habit should get hold of her.  There you’ve got her.’

‘Younger than Miss Brett?’

‘Younger,’ said Mr Brindley.  ’She isn’t the same sort of person, is she?’

‘She is not,’ said Mr Brindley.  And his tone implied:  ’Thank God for it!’

Very soon afterwards, at the top of a hill, he drew me into the garden of a large house which stood back from the road.

VII

It was quite a different sort of house from Mr Brindley’s.  One felt that immediately on entering the hall, which was extensive.  There was far more money and considerably less taste at large in that house than in the other.  I noticed carved furniture that must have been bought with a coarse and a generous hand; and on the walls a diptych by Marcus Stone portraying the course of true love clingingly draped.  It was just like Exeter or Onslow Square.  But the middle-aged servant who received us struck at once the same note as had sounded so agreeably at Mr Brindley’s.  She seemed positively glad to see us; our arrival seemed to afford her a peculiar and violent pleasure, as though the hospitality which we were about to accept was in some degree hers too.  She robbed us of our hats with ecstasy.

Then Mr Colclough appeared.

‘Delighted you’ve come, Mr Loring!’ he said, shaking my hand again.  He said it with fervour.  He obviously was delighted.  The exercise of hospitality was clearly the chief joy of his life; at least, if he had a greater it must have been something where keenness was excessive beyond the point of pleasure, as some joys are.  ‘How do, Bob?  Your missis has just come.’  He was still in his motoring clothes.

Mr Brindley, observing my gaze transiently on the Marcus Stones, said:  ’I know what you’re looking for; you’re looking for “Saul’s Soul’s Awakening”.  We don’t keep it in the window; you’ll see it inside.’