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yet how clearly she recognized the vanity in him and the something pathetic that went with a manly man’s vanity; something boyish and endearing. Still, she would not gratify it. She asked no question about the relations he could not endure, and made no protest about the atrocious book. ‘How do you like your house?’ was all that she vouchsafed him.

‘Well, here it is. — How do you like it? Come and look at it,’ said Captain Ingpen.

They had reached the end of the wood and there indeed, beyond a hedge, stood the low, ochre-coloured Old Manor Farm, a very plain and not unpleasing dwelling, long lapsed —or risen—from its original utilitarian purposes, with a trellised arch over the doorway and three plots of dilapidated snapdragons on the lawn before it. Monica had only seen it from the road, and, standing still to survey it, found herself placing it with some surprise in its new aspect.

‘I had no idea one came upon it like this,’ she said. ‘It’s not so bad, is it?—I should take down that trellis if I were you, and do away with those flower beds.’

‘Would you? I know nothing about gardening. I am a perfect savage about all that sort of thing.