unmercifully, but now he really looked almost pleasant.

"It's very good of you to help me like this, Miss Banks," he said, "and
I'm very grateful to you. I do apologise, most sincerely for dragging you
out of bed at such an unholy hour, but I'm sure you appreciate my--our
anxiety."

"Oh! of course," she agreed, with a look that I thought horribly
sympathetic.

I began to wonder if my first estimate of her--based to a certain extent,
perhaps, on Jervaise's admission that she did not like him--had not been
considerably too high. She might, after all, be just an ordinary charming
woman, enlivened by a streak of minx, and eager enough to catch the heir
of Jervaise if he were available. How low my thought of her must have sunk
at that moment! But they were, now, exchanging courtesies with an air that
gave to their commonplaces the effect of a flirtation.

I distracted my attention. I couldn't help hearing what they said, but I
could refrain from looking at Anne. She was becoming vivacious, and I
found myself strangely disliking her vivacity. It was then that I began to
take note of the furnishing of the room which, when I considered it, was
so peculiarly not in the manner of the familiar English farm-house.
Instead of the plush suite, the glass bell shades, the round centre table,
and all the other stuffy misconceptions so firmly established by the
civilisation of the nineteenth century, I discovered the authentic marks
of the old English æsthetic--whitewashed walls and black oak. And the
dresser, the settles, the oblong table, the rush-bottomed chairs, the big
chest by the side wall, all looked sturdily genuine; venerably conscious
of the boast that they had defied the greedy collector and would continue