and cases, evidently full of the sort of things of which Miss Durham had just spoken; there was also, on my left hand, a massive sideboard, covered with what looked to me like old silver.
"Is Mr. Parslewe a collector, then?" I asked. "Or is he an antiquary?"
"A bit of both, I think," she answered, as she handed me a tea-cup. "Anyway, he's always bringing home some curiosity or other that he's picked up. And he spends most of his time reading his old books—there's a room higher in the tower full of books—big things that one can scarcely lift."
"And how do you spend your time?" I inquired. "Not that way?"
She shook her head, laughing.
"That way?" she said. "No!—not yet, anyway; I'll leave that sort of thing till I'm old and frumpy. No, I spend my time out of doors mostly. A bit of fishing, a bit of running after the beagles, and a good bit of shooting. We have the shooting round about; it's rough shooting, but good."
"You're a regular Diana," I remarked. "And Mr. Parslewe, does he go in for sport?"
"Not much," she replied. "Sometimes he
