opened and shut, and Jean Jardine came down the flagged path. She
stopped at the gate and looked at Peter Reid.

"Were you by any chance coming in?" she asked.

"Yes," said Mr. Reid; "I was going to ask if I might see over the
house."

"Surely," said Jean. "But--you're not going to buy it, are you?"

The face she turned to him was pink and distressed.

"Did you think of buying it yourself?" Peter Reid asked.

"_Me_? You wouldn't ask that if you knew how little money I have. But
come in. I shall try to think of all its faults to tell you--but in my
eyes it hasn't got any."

They went slowly up the flagged path and into the square, low-roofed
hall. This was not as his mother had it. Then the floor had been covered
with linoleum on which had stood two hard chairs and an umbrella-stand.
Now there was an oak chest and a gate-table, old brass very well rubbed
up, a grandfather clock with a "clear" face, and a polished floor with a
Chinese rug on it.

"It is rather dark," said Jean, "but I like it dark. Coming in on a hot
summer day it is almost like a pool; it is so cool and dark and
polished." Mr. Reid said nothing, and Jean was torn between a desire to
have her home appreciated and a desire to have this stranger take an
instant dislike to it, and to leave it speedily and for ever.