seclusion.

There had been a time when Truedale hoped that the woman he loved would
choose and place furniture and hangings to her taste and his, but when
that hope failed and sickness fell upon him, he ordered only such rooms
put in order as were necessary for his restricted life. The library on
the first floor was a storehouse of splendid books and austere luxury;
beyond it were bath and bedroom, both fitted out perfectly. The long,
wide hall leading to these apartments was as empty and bare as when
carpenter and painter left it. Two servants--husband and wife--served
William Truedale, and rarely commented upon anything concerning him or
their relations to him. They probably had rooms for themselves
comfortably furnished, but in all the years Lynda Kendall had never been
anywhere in the house except in the rooms devoted to her old friend's
use. Sometimes she had wondered how Con fared, but nothing was ever
said on the subject and she and Brace had been, in their visiting,
limited to the downstair rooms.

When Lynda was ushered now into the library from the cold, outer hall it
was like finding comfort and luxury in the midst of desolation. The
opening door had not roused the man by the great open fire. He seemed
lost in a gloomy revery and Lynda had time to note, unobserved, the
tragic, pain-racked face and the pitifully thin outlines of the figure
stretched on the invalid chair and covered by a rug of rare silver fox.

There were birds in gilded cages by the large south window--mute little
mites they were; they rarely if ever sang but they were alive! There
were plants, too, luxuriously growing in pots and boxes--but not a
flower on one! They existed, not joyously, but persistently. A Russian
hound, white as snow, lay before the fire; his soft, mournful eyes were