Slowly he threaded his way amongst the elegant Louis Quinze
furniture, examining as though for the first time the beautiful old
tapestry, the Sevres china, the Chippendale table, which was
priceless, the exquisite portraits painted by Greuze, and the
mysterious green twilights and grey dawns of Corot. Everywhere
treasures of art, yet everywhere the restraining hand of the artist.
The faint smell of dead rose leaves hung about the room. Already
one seemed conscious of a certain emptiness as though the genius of
the place had gone. Mr. Sabin leaned heavily upon his stick, and
his head drooped lower and lower. A soft, respectful voice came
to him from the other room.

"In five minutes, sir, the carriage will be at the door. I have
your coat and hat here."

Mr. Sabin looked up.

"I am quite ready, Duson!" he said.

* * * * *

The servants in the hall stood respectfully aside to let him pass.
On the way to the depot he saw nothing of those who saluted him.
In the car he sat with folded arms in the most retired seat, looking
steadfastly out of the window at the dying day. There were
mountains away westwards, touched with golden light; sometimes for
long minutes together the train was rushing through forests whose
darkness was like that of a tunnel. Mr. Sabin seemed indifferent
to these changes. The coming of night did not disturb him. His
brain was at work, and the things which he saw were hidden from