Blent.

"All the same," she thought, "I suppose he'll marry Janie, and I'm
certain he'll keep Blent." Yet he seemed to take no pleasure in his
prospects and just at this moment not much in his possessions. Mina was
puzzled, but did not go so far wrong as to conceive him
conscience-stricken. She concluded that she must wait for light.

XI

A PHANTOM BY THE POOL

In a quite little street running between the Fulham and the King's Road,
in a row of small houses not yet improved out of existence, there was
one house smallest of all, with the smallest front, the smallest back,
and the smallest garden. The whole thing was almost impossibly small, a
peculiarity properly reflected in the rent which Mr Gainsborough paid to
the firm of Sloyd, Sloyd, and Gurney for the fag-end of a long lease. He
did some professional work for Sloyds from time to time, and that member
of the firm who had let Merrion Lodge to Mina Zabriska was on friendly
terms with him; so that perhaps the rent was a little lower still than
it would have been otherwise; even trifling reductions counted as
important things in the Gainsborough Budget. Being thus small, the house
was naturally full; the three people who lived there were themselves
enough to account for that. But it was also unnaturally full by reason
of Mr Gainsborough's habit of acquiring old furniture of no value, and
new bric-a-brac whose worth could be expressed only by minus signs.
These things flooded floors and walls, and overflowed on to the strip of
gravel behind. From time to time many of them disappeared; there were
periodical revolts on Cecily's part, resulting in clearances; the gaps
were soon made good by a fresh influx of the absolutely undesirable.
When Sloyd came he looked round with a professional despair that there
was not a thing in the place which would fetch a sovereign! Such is the
end of seeking beauty on an empty purse; some find a pathos in it, but
it is more generally regarded as a folly in the seeker, a wrong to his
dependents, and a nuisance to his friends.

In no other way could Gainsborough--Melton John Gainsborough,
Architect--be called a nuisance, unless by Harry Tristram's capricious
pleasure. For he was very unobtrusive, small like his house, lean like
his purse, shabby as his furniture, humbler than his bric-a-brac. He
asked very little of the world; it gave him half, and he did not
complain. He was never proud of anything, but he was gratified by his