room you prefer."

He led the way to the first floor, and opened a door in a corner of the
pillared gallery.

"Oh, jolly!" cried Helena.

For they entered a lofty room, with white Georgian panelling, a few
pretty old cabinets and chairs, a chintz-covered sofa, a stand of stuffed
humming-birds, a picture or two, a blue Persian carpet, and a large
book-case full of books.

"My books!" cried Helena in amazement. "I was just going to ask if
the cases had come. How ever did you get them unpacked, and put here
so quickly?"

"Nothing easier. They arrived three days ago. I telephoned to a man I
know in Leicester Square. He sent some one down, and they were all
finished before you came down. Perhaps you won't like the arrangement?
Well, it will amuse you to undo it!"

If there was the slightest touch of sarcasm in the eyes that travelled
from her to the books, Helena took it meekly. She went to the
bookshelves. Poets, novelists, plays, philosophers, economists, some
French and Italian books, they were all in their proper places. The books
were partly her own, partly her mother's. Helena eyed them thoughtfully.

"You must have taken a lot of trouble."

"Not at all. The man took all the trouble. There wasn't much."