He reached it in due course, and passed into the little parlour that
adjoined the bar. It was a comfortable room enough, notwithstanding its
adornments of badly stuffed birds and fishes, and chiefly remarkable for
its wide old-fashioned fireplace with wrought-iron dogs. There was no
lamp in the room when Leonard entered, but the light of the burning wood
was bright, and by it he could see his brother seated in a high-backed
chair gazing into the fire, his hand resting on his knee.

Thomas Outram was Leonard's elder by two years and cast in a more
fragile mould. His face was the face of a dreamer, the brown eyes were
large and reflective, and the mouth sensitive as a child's. He was a
scholar and a philosopher, a man of much desultory reading, with refined
tastes and a really intimate knowledge of Greek gems.

"Is that you, Leonard?" he said, looking up absently; "where have you
been?"

"To the Rectory," answered his brother.

"What have you been doing there?"

"Do you want to know?"

"Yes, of course. Did you see Jane?"

Then Leonard told him all the story.

"What do you think she will do?" asked Tom when his brother had
finished. "Given the situation and the woman, it is rather a curious
problem."