empty.

"Mr. and Mrs. Weatherley will be downstairs in one moment, sir,"
the man announced. "Mr. Weatherley was a little late home from the
city."

Arnold nodded and stood upon the hearthrug, looking around him. He
was quite content to spend a few moments alone, to admire the
drooping clusters of roses, the elegance with which every article of
furniture and appointment of the room seemed to fit into its place.
Somehow or other, too, nothing appeared new. Everything seemed
subdued by time into its proper tone. He began to wonder what sort
of woman the presiding genius over such perfection could be. Then,
with a quaint transition of thought, he remembered the little
counting-house in Tooley Street, the smell of cheeses, and Mr.
Weatherley's half-nervous invitation. His lips twitched and he began
to smile. These things seemed to belong to a world so far away.

Presently he heard footsteps outside and voices. The door was opened
but the person outside did not immediately enter. Apparently she had
turned round to listen to the man who was still some distance
behind. Arnold recognized his employer's voice.

"I am sorry that you are displeased, my dear Fenella, but I assure
you that I did the best I could. It is true that the young man is in
my office, but I am convinced that you will find him presentable."

A peal of the softest and most musical laughter that Arnold had
ever heard in his life effectually stopped Mr. Weatherley's
protestations. Yet, for all its softness and for all its music,