He unpacked his clothes and laid his belongings in the drawers and cupboards; it was oddly charming that each shelf or drawer should have its own little muslin bag of grey lavender. Then he took up a book and began to read. The sunset had died away, the daylight seemed to be glowing out of the low window like a tide, leaving bare breadths of darkness behind. He lighted candles. He was growing hungry—it was past eight o’clock.
“I believe the old lady has forgotten my existence,” he said, and therewith opened his cottage door and went out into the lighter twilight of the garden. The shrubbery walks were winding. He took the wrong turning, and found himself entering on the narrow lawn. From the French window among the jasmine came lamplight—and voices.
“No servant, no food? My good mother, you’ve entertained a lunatic unawares.”
“He had references.”
“Man cannot live by references alone. The poor brute must be starving—unless he’s drunk.”
“Celia! I do wish you wouldn’t”
John Selborne hastening by, put a period to the conversation by boots crunching heavily
