ible
significance. I need counsel--wise counsel--about it."

She paused and looked at him wistfully. As though interpreting his nod as
encouragement, she went on--.

"Mr. Austin Turold and his son have been inmates of my household for the
last six weeks. Mr. Robert Turold arranged it with me beforehand. I had
never done anything of the kind before, but our means--my husband's and
mine--are insufficient for the stress of these times. After all, people
must live."

Mr. Brimsdown's slight shake of the head seemed to imply that this last
statement was by no means an incontrovertible proposition, but Mrs.
Brierly was not looking at him.

"Therefore, to oblige Mr. Turold we decided to afford hospitality to his
brother and son. The terms were favourable, and they were gentlefolk.
These things counted, and the money helped. But if I had only known--if I
could have foreseen ..."

"Mr. Turold's death?" said Mr. Brimsdown, filling in the pause.

"I mean--everything," she retorted a little wildly. "My name is well
known. I was in Society once. There is my husband's reputation as an
artist to be considered. I would not be talked about for worlds. I acted
against my husband's advice in this matter--in taking Mr. Turold and his
son. My husband said it was a degradation to take in lodgers. I pointed
out that they were gentlefolk. There is a difference. I wish now that I
had listened to my husband's advice."

Mr. Brimsdown listened with patient immobility. His long experience of
female witnesses withheld him from any effort to hasten the flow of his
companion's story.

"They were very nice and quiet--particularly Mr. Austin Turold," she went
on. "The son was more silent and reserved, but we saw very little of
him--he was out so much. But Mr. Turold did my husband good--his breeding
and conversation were just what he needed to lift him out of himself. A
man goes to seed in the country, Mr. Brimsdown, no matter how intellectual
he may be. Nature is delightful, but a man needs to be near Piccadilly to
keep smart. Cornwall is so very far away--so remote--and Cornish rocks are
dreadfully severe on good clothes. I am not complaining, you understand.
We had to come to Cornwall. It was inevitable--for us. No English artist
is considered anything until he has painted a picture of the Land's End or
Newquay. The Channel Islands--or Devon--is not quite the same thing. Not
such a distinctive hallmark. So we came to Cornwall, and my husband