With apparent alertness, but sighing inwardly, Guthrie followed his
host to the room in the old part of the house which he called his
office. Mr Pennycuick carefully shut the door, opened a desk
full of drawers and pigeon-holes, and brought forth a bit of cardboard
with a shy air. He had never shown it to his family, and doubtless
would not have shown it now if he had not been growing old and soft and
sentimental. It was a prim and niggling little water-colour drawing of
English Redford--a flat facade, with swallows as big as condors flying
over the roofs, and dogs that could never have got through any doorway
gambolling on the lawn in front. A tiny 'Mary Carey' in one corner was
just, and only just, visible to the naked eye.

"This was done for me, when we were both young, by her--your aunt,"
said Mr Pennycuick, gloating upon his treasure over Guthrie's shoulder.

"Not my aunt," explained Guthrie. "I don't know what relation, but a
long way farther off than that. I am only a very small Carey, you know,
sir."

Mr Pennycuick testily intimated, as before, that to be a Carey at all
was enough for him. It was his excuse for these confidences, of which
he was half ashamed.

While Guthrie studied the poor picture, trying to look as interested as
he was expected to be, his host turned and stared down into the drawer
that had held it for so many years. Other things were there--the usual
dead flowers, still holding together, still fusty to the nose; the
usual yellowing ball glove, the usual dance and invitation cards, and
faded letters, with their edges frayed; a book-marker with an
embroidered 'Friendship', mixed up with forget-me-nots, in coloured