tower, which was furnished as a quaint recess for writing or study,
pierced through its enormous walls with a lance-shaped window, hidden by
heavy curtains. He was gazing abstractedly at the melancholy eyes of Sir
Percival, looking down from the dark panel opposite, when he heard the
crisp rustle of a skirt. Lady Canterbridge tightly and stiffly buttoned
in black from her long narrow boots to her slim, white-collared neck,
stood beside him with a prayer-book in her ungloved hand. Bradley
colored quickly; the penetrating incense of the Christmas boughs
and branches that decked the walls and ceilings, mingled with some
indefinable intoxicating aura from the woman at his side, confused his
senses. He seemed to be losing himself in some forgotten past coeval
with the long, quaintly-lighted room, the rich hangings, and the painted
ancestor of this handsome woman. He recovered himself with an effort,
and said,

"You are going to church?"

"I may meet them coming home; it's all the same. You like HIM?" she said
abruptly, pointing to the portrait. "I thought you did not care for that
sort of man over there."

"A man like that must have felt the impotence of his sacrifice before he
died, and that condoned everything," said Bradley, thoughtfully.

"Then you don't think him a fool? Bob says it was a fair bargain for
a title and an office, and that by dying he escaped trial and the
confiscation of what he had."

Bradley did not reply.