It might have been a cheerless place enough, for one unintelligent
Georgian Kingsmead had added to its austerity of church-like painted
windows a very awful row of glossy marble pillars, that stood as if
aware of their own ugliness, holding up a quite unnecessary and
appallingly hideous gallery.

Luckily, however, the late Lord Kingsmead, while not possessing enough
initiative to do away with the horrors perpetuated by his ancestors, was
a man of some taste, and had, by the means of gorgeous Eastern carpets,
skilful overhead lighting, and some fine hangings, transformed the place
into a very comfortable and livable one.

A huge fire burned under the splendid carved chimney-piece, and Brigit,
turning from the cool moonlight to the interior, watched it with a
certain sense of artistic pleasure. It was a dear old house, Kingsmead,
and with money--oh, yes, oh, yes, money! When Tommy was grown, what kind
of a man would he be? She shuddered.

And there, staring at her across a table on which he was leaning to
perfect his not quite faultless balance, stood Pontefract, money, so far
as she was concerned, personified.

He owned mines in Cornwall, a highly successful motor-factory, a big
London newspaper, a house in Grosvenor Square, and Pomfret Abbey.

Also he owned an ever-thirsting palate, a fat red neck, red-rimmed eyes,
and a bald head.

She looked at him with the absent-minded deliberation that so annoyed
many people. He was rather awful in many ways, but he was a kind man,