a vice. For the rest, all the minor accessories of this spacious and
tranquil place were as plentiful and as well chosen as the heart could
desire. And solid literature and light literature, and great writers and
small, were all bounteously illuminated alike by a fine broad flow of
the light of heaven, pouring into the room through windows that opened
to the floor.



It was the fourth day from the day of Lady Lundie's garden-party, and
it wanted an hour or more of the time at which the luncheon-bell usually
rang.

The guests at Windygates were most of them in the garden, enjoying the
morning sunshine, after a prevalent mist and rain for some days past.
Two gentlemen (exceptions to the general rule) were alone in the
library. They were the two last gentlemen in the would who could
possibly be supposed to have any legitimate motive for meeting each
other in a place of literary seclusion. One was Arnold Brinkworth, and
the other was Geoffrey Delamayn.

They had arrived together at Windygates that morning. Geoffrey had
traveled from London with his brother by the train of the previous
night. Arnold, delayed in getting away at his own time, from his own
property, by ceremonies incidental to his position which were not to be
abridged without giving offense to many worthy people--had caught the
passing train early that morning at the station nearest to him, and had
returned to Lady Lundie's, as he had left Lady Lundie's, in company with
his friend.