"There are very many reasons," she replied, a little curtly for
her.

"Anyway," said John Lexman, after a moment's thought, "his arrival
is rather opportune. Where is he?"

"He is in the drawing-room."

The Priory drawing-room was a low-ceilinged, rambling apartment,
"all old print and chrysanthemums," to use Lexman's description.
Cosy armchairs, a grand piano, an almost medieval open grate,
faced with dull-green tiles, a well-worn but cheerful carpet and
two big silver candelabras were the principal features which
attracted the newcomer.

There was in this room a harmony, a quiet order and a soothing
quality which made it a haven of rest to a literary man with
jagged nerves. Two big bronze bowls were filled with early
violets, another blazed like a pale sun with primroses, and the
early woodland flowers filled the room with a faint fragrance.

A man rose to his feet, as John Lexman entered and crossed the
room with an easy carriage. He was a man possessed of singular
beauty of face and of figure. Half a head taller than the author,
he carried himself with such a grace as to conceal his height.

"I missed you in town," he said, "so I thought I'd run down on the
off chance of seeing you."

He spoke in the well-modulated tone of one who had had a long