that Mrs. Craven, that mysterious woman,
should not be there. The hall, when the old servant had admitted him,
once again seemed to enfold him in its darkness and heavy air with an
almost active purpose. It breathed with an actual sound, almost with
a melody . . . the "Valse Triste" of Sibelius, a favourite with Olva,
seemed to him now to be humming its thin spiral note amongst the skins
and Chinese weapons that covered the walls. The House seemed to come
forward, on this second occasion, actively, personally. . . . His wish
was gratified. Margaret Craven was alone in the dark, low-ceilinged
drawing-room, standing, in her black dress, before the great deep
fireplace, as though she had known that he would come and had been
awaiting his arrival.

"I know that you will excuse my mother," she said in her grave, quiet
voice. "She is not very well. She will be sorry not to have seen you."
Her hand was cool and strong, and, as he held it for an instant, he was
strangely conscious that she, as well as the House, had moved into more
intimate relation with him since their last meeting.

They sat down and talked quietly, their voices sounding like low notes
of music in the heavy room. He was conscious of rest in the repose of
her figure, the pale outline of her face, the even voice, and above
all the grave tenderness of her eyes. He was aware, too, that she was
demanding from him something of the same kind; he divined that for her,
too, life had been no easy thing since they last met and that she wanted
now a little relief before she must return. He tried to give it her.

All through their conversation he was still conscious in the dim rustle
that any breeze made in the room of that thin melody that Sibelius once
heard. . . .

"I hope that Mrs. Craven is not seriously ill?

"No. It is one of her headaches. Her nerves are very easily upset. There
was a thunder-storm last night. . . . She has never been strong since
father died."

"You will tell her how sorry I am."

"Thank you. She is wonderfully brave about it. She never complains--she
suffers more than we know, I think. I don't think this house is good
for her. Father died here and her bedroom now is the room where he died.
That is not good for her, I'm sure. Rupert and I both are agreed
about it, but we cannot get her to change her mind. She can be very
determined."

Yes--Olva, remembering her as she sat so sternly before the fire, knew
that she could be determined.