It was Sunday afternoon, and they had been taking tea with Mrs. Fazakerly. This was the second time that Durant had had the opportunity of studying Mrs. Fazakerly at home, of filling in the little figure on its own appropriate background. The first thing that struck him was that the background was not appropriate, or rather that it was inadequate. Mrs. Fazakerly\'s drawing-room had an air of uneasy elegance, of appearances painfully supported on the thin edge of two hundred a year. It was furnished with a too conspicuous care; the most insignificant details were arranged so as to lead up to and set off her good things, which were few and far between. There was no rest in it for the eye that was perpetually seized and riveted on some bit of old silver, or Oriental drapery, some Chippendale cabinet or chair. Such things were the commonplaces of Coton Manor, and there they fell unobtrusively into their place. Here they were touched up and handled, posed out of all simplicity; [Pg 280] they bore themselves accordingly with a shining consciousness of their own rarity; they made an unblushing bid for praise. In Mrs. Fazakerly\'s drawing-room the note of taste was forced.

The invitation had come as a sort of farewell attention to Durant. Its valedictory character was further emphasized by Mrs. Fazakerly\'s proposing to walk home with them, and finally falling into the rear with Durant.

As a turn in the drive brought them within sight of Coton Manor, Mrs. Fazakerly balanced her pince-nez on the bridge of her nose. It remained there, and he judged that Mrs. Fazakerly was in no mood for mirth.

"That house," said Mrs. Fazakerly, "annoys me."

"Why?"

"Because it hasn\'t had justice done to it."

"I should have thought that was a ground for pity rather than resentment."

Mrs. Fazakerly shrugged her shoulders ever so little. "That drawing-room—did you ever see anything like it? And such possibilities in it, too. I can\'t bear to think of all those beautiful things wasted, just for want of a little taste, a little arrangement—the right touch."

The widow\'s white fingers twitched. It was not vulgar cupidity; it was the passion of the born genius, of the lover of art for art\'s sake, who sees his opportunity given into the hands of an inferior. If only she had the ordering, the decoration of Coton Manor! Durant thought of the cottage at the gates, her cramped and humble sphere; it was not her fault so much as the defect of her instrument, that forcing of the note of taste; no wonder that she longed for the rich harmonies of Coton Manor under "the right touch," the touch of the master. [Pg 281]

She continued, "But poor dear Miss Tancred, you know, she will have it left just as it was in Mrs. Tancred\'s time; she won\'t change a picture or a chair in it. That\'s Frida all over. She\'s made that house a monument to her mother\'s memory. And think what she might have made it."

"I\'m thinking what she might have made of her life. She seems to be making that a monument to her father\'s memory."

"Ah! and the things she could have done with it."

Impossible to say whether Mrs. Fazakerly referred to Miss Tancred\'s house or her life. Durant smiled at her probable conception of Coton Manor, with its tragedy of splendid possibilities gone to waste; but Mrs. Fazakerly\'s idea cut both ways.

She sighed wearily.

"These drives were not made to be walked up. There\'s another mile and a half of it, and I\'m half-dead already. I shall sit down."

She led the way to an elm tree fallen in the grass, examined it critically, sat down, and made a place for him at her side.

"So you\'re going to-morrow? Is that so?"

"It is—probably."

"It\'s a pity—just as you and Miss Tancred have made friends."

"The best of friends must part," said he lightly.

"Yes. Well, I\'m glad you\'ve managed to be nice to her, after all. She\'s come out in the most astonishing manner since you came. What have you been doing to her?"

"I\'ve done nothing to her, I assure you."

"Ah, you mean you\'ve not been making love to her."

"I don\'t mean anything of the sort."

Durant was angry. It was borne in upon him that [Pg 282] Mrs. Fazakerly was vulgar, after all. She looked at him, and her pince-nez balanced itself on the bridge of her nose, then leapt its suicidal leap. She was amused with the ambiguity of his reply.

"That\'s all right. Heaven help the man who does make love to her, if he means it. That girl\'s a riddle to me. I used to think she cared a little for her father; but it\'s my belie............