drab-haired woman who entirely filled the doorway and said stolidly:
"Not at home, sir."
"But," he said, "I am expected."
"Not at home, sir," was the reply.
"I was to call at five."
"Not at home," said Mrs. Doveton monotonously, faithful to her trust.
"very well," said the young man, and went down the white steps of Hope Cottage.
"He does look furious," Lucilla said, peeping round the yellow damask curtains; "and well he may! Oh!" she added, drawing back hastily.
"What's the matter?" said Jane.
"He turned round," said Lucilla.
"And saw you, of course. Well, you've done it thoroughly this time, Lucy."
"Done it?" said Lucilla, bewildered.
"Yes—we can never make it up with him now, whatever explanations he gives."
But you don't want to make it up with him. You said he couldn't have any explanations," Lucilla urged.
"Still, there's such a thing as manners. Saying not at home is one thing, but looking out of the window and putting out your tongue at him is another."
"I didn't."
"Well, the principle's the same. Don't let's weep over him. We shall never see him again, or know how he came to have the keys, or why he isn't the owner, or how he dared to burgle the cellar for that port wine—or any single thing."
"But you don't want to know."
"Of course I don't. He's dead and done with. But Cedar Court, Lucy—Cedar Court. Don't let's talk of silly young men with kind faces and black, false, knavish hearts. Let's talk about Cedar Court. Our Cedar Court. Aren't I tactful? Don't I always do the right thing? Hbw extraordinarily clever it was of me to fall down those stairs, wasn't
