though he could attach no distinct association to it, and now the sight of the Miss Grimsons' gate with "In" very clear on the door-post, and "Fair View" in white letters along the top bar, decided him. What if the Misses Grimson's proceedings were correct or not? It was a kindly thing of them to have called; it would be a churlish thing on his part not to return their civility. Besides, it was fairly certain that they would be out.
The bell which his chauffeur had rung tinkled itself away into silence again; bees buzzed drowsily from the strip of flower-bed below the windows, on the sill of one of which lay a girlish-looking hat, and from somewhere overhead, in a higher key, came the sound of whistling, clear, soft, but piercing notes, which arrested his attention, The whistler, whoever it was, was whistling the melody from the first movement of Schubert's "Unfinished Symphony," and in its way it was a remarkable performance, for both the tone of the notes was of that lazy flute-like quality which is so exquisite in itself, and, an even rarer merit, the notes were perfectly and absolutely in tune. Then the door was opened, and to his inquiry whether Miss Grimson was at home, it appeared that Miss Lucia was.
He was shown into the drawing-room, that temple of worsted work, and while Miss Lucia was being "told," he looked round. It surprised him a little to find how strange a mixture of objects met his eye: heavy early Victorian furniture was decorated with unspeakable ornaments, all standing on woollen mats; a shiny sofa of American cloth had a long covering of worsted laid over it like a bedspread; a kettle-holder was hung on a brass nail by the fireplace, and a Carlo Dolci engraving smirked on the wall above it. These things were all consistent, part of a whole, yet the other part was so intensely inconsistent. The hat on the window-sill, with a big bow of scarlet ribbon, was a most foreign object; on the piano was open a copy of the Symphony of which he had just heard a few bars. Omar Khayyám lay on the bedspread of the sofa, and on a table in the corner, where a cut-glass vase might have been looked for, was a coarse green crockery jug with a great bough of pendulous laburnum in it, where calceolarias were probable.
Then there came a light foot in the passage outside, and Lucia entered. Then he remembered. It was at a dance they had met; she was a friend of—that he could not recollect.
But Lucia gave him no pause to consider.
"How are you, Lord Brayton?" she said, "and how good of
