at ran over the premises of the
College porter. In this corridor were three bedrooms looking upon the
street, bedrooms occupied by Lady Dashwood and by Gwendolen Scott, and
the third room, the blue room, about to be occupied by Mrs. Dashwood.
Lady Dashwood passed the corridor steps, passed the head of the
staircase, and went towards a curtained door. This was the Warden's
bedroom. Beyond was his library door. At this door beyond, she knocked.

An agreeable voice answered her knock. She went in. The library was a
noble room. Opposite the door was a wide, high latticed window, hung
with heavy curtains and looking on to the Entrance Court. To the right
was a great fireplace with a small high window on each side of it. On
the left hand the walls were lined with books--and a great winged
book-case stood out from the wall, like a screen sheltering the door
which Lady Dashwood entered. Over the door was the portrait of a
Cardinal once a member of King's. Over the mantelpiece was a large
engraving of King's as it was in the sixteenth century. At a desk in the
middle of the room sat the Warden with his back to the fire and his face
towards the serried array of books. He was just turning up a
reading-lamp--for he always read and wrote by lamplight.

"Robinson hasn't drawn your curtains," said Lady Dashwood.

"I am going to draw them--he came in too soon," said the Warden, without
moving from his seat. His face was lit up by the flame of the lamp which
he was staring at intently. There was just a faint sprinkling of grey
in his brown hair, but on the regular features there was almost no trace
of age.

"You have given Gwen another book to read," said Lady Dashwood coming up
to the writing-table.

The Warden raised his eyes very slowly to hers. His eyes were peculiar.
They were very narrow and blue, seeming to reflect little. On the other
hand, they seemed to absorb everything. He moved them very slowly as if
he were adjusting a photographic apparatus.

"Yes," he said.

"You might just as well, my dear, hand out a volume of the _Encyclopaedia
Britannica_ to the sparrows in your garden," said his sister.

The Warden made no reply, he merely moved the lamp very slightly nearer
to the writing pad in front of him.

He had a stored-up memory of pink cheeks, a pure curve of chin and neck,
a dark curl by the ear; objects young and graceful and gradually
absorbed by those narrow eyes and stored in the brain. He also had
memories