it seemed
imploringly: dinner was growing cold. It roused Mr. Barbecue-Smith from
meditation. He turned to Denis.

"You understand me now when I advise you to cultivate your Inspiration.
Let your Subconscious work for you; turn on the Niagara of the
Infinite."

There was the sound of feet on the stairs. Mr. Barbecue-Smith got up,
laid his hand for an instant on Denis's shoulder, and said:

"No more now. Another time. And remember, I rely absolutely on your
discretion in this matter. There are intimate, sacred things that one
doesn't wish to be generally known."

"Of course," said Denis. "I quite understand."

CHAPTER VII.

At Crome all the beds were ancient hereditary pieces of furniture. Huge
beds, like four-masted ships, with furled sails of shining coloured
stuff. Beds carved and inlaid, beds painted and gilded. Beds of walnut
and oak, of rare exotic woods. Beds of every date and fashion from the
time of Sir Ferdinando, who built the house, to the time of his namesake
in the late eighteenth century, the last of the family, but all of them
grandiose, magnificent.

The finest of all was now Anne's bed. Sir Julius, son to Sir Ferdinando,
had had it made in Venice against his wife's first lying-in. Early
seicento Venice had expended all its extravagant art in the making of
it. The body of the bed was like a great square sarcophagus. Clustering
roses were carved in high relief on its wooden panels, and luscious
putti wallowed among the roses. On the black ground-work of the panels
the carved reliefs were gilded and burnished. The golden roses twined in
spirals up the four pillar-like posts, and cherubs, seated at the top
of each column, supported a wooden canopy fretted with the same carved
flowers.

Anne was reading in bed. Two candles stood on the little table beside
her, in their rich light her face, her bare arm and shoulder took on
warm hues and a sort of peach-like quality of surface. Here and there in
the canopy above her carved golden petals shone brightly among profound
shadows, and the soft light, falling on the sculptured panel of the bed,
broke restlessly among the intricate roses, lingered in a broad caress
on the blown cheeks, the dimpled bellies, the tight, absurd little
posteriors of the sprawling putti.

There was a discreet tap at the door. She looked up. "Come in, come in."
A face, round and childish, within its sleek bell of golden hair, peered
round the opening door. More childish-loo