name,' she said: Marthe Ludérac. You must own it's queer.'
Dick listened, but rather vaguely. 'I can see nothing queer about it. Why shouldn't the daughter put roses on her mother's grave—and on the mantelpiece as well? It's the natural thing to do if you have a dead mother—and roses;—and a mantelpiece. What of it, Jill?'
'I don't know. I only feel it a little creepy. The grave all alone like that; and the dismal house, and the one-eyed, one-legged animals, and that poor old woman with her princely châteaux and porridge-bowl.'
At this Graham began to laugh and looked at his wife as he had not looked at her since they had entered the Manoir. It was as if her preoccupation exorcised his own. He linked his arm in hers. 'Go on, Jill. Tell me some more. I like to see your imagination having a run; it runs so seldom—sane creature that you are.—Now I've not been seeing people at all. I've been seeing that tranced room—the colour of sea-water; those stairs with the high, uncanny window over them; that garden that remembers—and waits;—in its sleep; for it went to sleep fifty years ago.'
'Oh, Dick;—you are a treasure!—to see it all like that—and make me see it, too. Yes, of course; I was feeling it down at the bottom of my mind; only it was all, with me, a background for the people; for Marthe Ludérac and the old lady. You're quite right. It's a coup de foudre. She's dreadfully in love with you, and
