at she'd say. No one ever
did draw that woman out.'

I had completely lost my vision of her in the boat, but somehow that
declaration of his, 'no one ever did draw that woman out', partially
restored the vision to me. It seemed to invest her with agreeable
mystery.

'And the other sister--Mrs Colclough?' I questioned.

'I'm taking you to see her as fast as I can,' he answered. His tone
implied further: 'I've just humoured one of your whims, now for the
other.'

'But tell me something about her.'

'She's the best bridge-player--woman, that is--in Bursley. But she will
only play every other night for fear the habit should get hold of her.
There you've got her.'

'Younger than Miss Brett?'

'Younger,' said Mr Brindley. 'She isn't the same sort of person, is
she?'

'She is not,' said Mr Brindley. And his tone implied: 'Thank God for
it!'

Very soon afterwards, at the top of a hill, he drew me into the garden
of a large house which stood back from the road.

VII

It was quite a different sort of house from Mr Brindley's. One felt
that immediately on entering the hall, which was extensive. There was
far more money and considerably less taste at large in that house than
in the other. I noticed carved furniture that must have been bought
with a coarse and a generous hand; and on the walls a diptych by Marcus
Stone portraying the course of true love clingingly draped. It was just
like Exeter or Onslow Square. But the middle-aged servant who received
us struck at once the same note as had sounded so agreeably at Mr
Brindley's. She seemed positively glad to see us; our arrival seemed to
afford her a peculiar and violent pleasure, as though the hospitality
which we were about to accept was in some degree hers too. She robbed
us of our hats with ecstasy.

Then Mr Colclough appeared.

'Delighted you've come, Mr Loring!' he said, shaking my hand again. He
said it with fervour. He obviously was delighted. The exercise of
hospitality was clearly the chief joy of his life; at least, if he had
a greater it must have been something where keenness was excessive
beyond the point of pleasure, as some joys are. 'How do, Bob? Your
missis has just come.' He was still in his motoring clothes.

Mr Brindley, observing my gaze transiently on the Marcus Stones, said:
'I know what you're looking for; you're looking for "Saul's Soul's
Awakening". We don't keep it in the window; you'll see it inside.'

'Bob's always rotting