rformed and very particular little ceremonies to be observed,
each in its proper place. Each to-night was accompanied by some genial
comment: the senna-pod distillation, that had been soaking since seven
p.m. in hot water, was drunk almost with the air of a toast; the
massaging of the ankles and toes (an exercise invented entirely by Lord
Talgarth himself) might have been almost in preparation for a dance.

He stood up at last, an erect, stoutish figure, in quilted dressing-gown
and pyjamas, before the fire, as his man put on his slippers for him,
for the little procession into the next room.

"I think I'm better to-night, Clarkson," he said.

"Your lordship seems very well indeed, my lord," murmured that diplomat
on the hearth-rug.

"How old do you think I am, Clarkson?"

Clarkson knew perfectly well, but it was better to make a deprecatory
confused noise.

"Ah! well, we needn't reckon by years ... I feel young enough," observed
the stately figure before the fire.

* * * * *

Then the procession was formed: the double doors were set back, the
electric light switched on; Lord Talgarth passed through towards the
great four-posted bed that stood out into the bedroom, and was in bed,
with scarcely a groan, almost before the swift Mr. Clarkson could be at
his side to help him in. He lay there, his ruddy face wonderfully
handsome against the contrast of his gray hair and the white pillow,
while Mr. Clarkson concluded the other and final ceremonies. A small
table had to be wheeled to a certain position beside the bed, and the
handle of the electric cord laid upon it in a particular place, between
the book and the tray on which stood some other very special draught to
be drunk in case of thirst.

"Call me a quarter of an hour earlier than usual," observed the face on
the pillow. "I'll take a little stroll before breakfast."

"Yes, my lord."

"What did I tell you to remind me to do after breakfast?"

"Send for Mr. Manners, my lord."

"That's right. Good-night, Clarkson."

"Good-night, my lord."

* * * * *

There was the usual discreet glance round the room to see that all was
in order; then the door into the dressing-room closed imperceptibly
behind Mr. Clarkson's bent back.

CHAPTER III

(I)

Winter at Merefield Rectory is almost as delightful as summer, although
in an entirely different way. The fact is that the Rectory has managed