“Do any of the horses work at all?” Francis asked.

Sir Timothy smiled.

“I will tell you a very human thing about my favourites,” he said.  “In the gardens on the other side of the house we have very extensive lawns, and my head groom thought he would make use of one of a my horses who had recovered from a serious accident and was really quite a strong beast, for one of the machines.  He found the idea quite a success, and now he no sooner appears in the park with a halter than, instead of stampeding, practically every one of those horses comes cantering up with the true volunteering spirit.  The one which he selects, arches his neck and goes off to work with a whole string of the others following.  Dodsley—­that is my groom’s name—­tells me that he does a great deal more mowing now than he need, simply because they worry him for the work.  Gratitude, you see, Mr. Ledsam, sheer gratitude.  If you were to provide a dozen alms-houses for your poor dependants, I wonder how many of them would be anxious to mow your lawn....  Come, let me show you your room now.”

They passed back through the postern-gate into the gardens of The Sanctuary.  Sir Timothy led the way towards the house.

“I am glad that you decided to spend the night, Mr. Ledsam,” he said.  “The river sounds a terribly hackneyed place to the Londoner, but it has beauties which only those who live with it can discover.  Mind your head.  My ceilings are low.”

Francis followed his host along many passages, up and down stairs, until he reached a little suite of rooms at the extreme end of the building.  The man-servant who had unpacked his bag stood waiting.  Sir Timothy glanced around critically.

“Small but compact,” he remarked.  “There is a little sitting-room down that stair, and a bathroom beyond.  If the flowers annoy you, throw them out of the window.  And if you prefer to bathe in the river to-morrow morning, Brooks here will show you the diving pool.  I am wearing a short coat myself to-night, but do as you please.  We dine at half-past eight.”

Sir Timothy disappeared with a courteous little inclination of the head.  Francis dismissed the manservant at once as being out of keeping with his quaint and fascinating surroundings.  The tiny room with its flowers, its perfume of lavender, its old-fashioned chintzes, and its fragrant linen, might still have been a room in a cottage.  The sitting-room, with its veranda looking down upon the river, was provided with cigars, whisky and soda and cigarettes; a bookcase, with a rare copy of Rabelais, an original Surtees, a large paper Decameron, and a few other classics.  Down another couple of steps was a perfectly white bathroom, with shower and plunge.  Francis wandered from room to room, and finally threw himself into a chair on the veranda to smoke a cigarette.  From the river below him came now and then the sound of voices.  Through the trees on his right he could catch a glimpse, here and there, of the strange pillars and green domed roof of the Borghese villa.