Chris had grown very quiet, and was pondering the situation. She began to have a faint suspicion of the direction whither these remarks were tending, and some words which presently fell from her mother’s lips confirmed it. “I wonder, Chris,” she said softly, running her fingers gently up and down one of the steel knitting-pins, “whether Mr. Bradfield is a bachelor, or a widower, or what?” “I don’t know, I’m sure, mother,” answered the young girl demurely. Then there was silence for a short space, and when Mrs. Abercarne spoke again it was about something else. By tacit agreement the master of the house was not mentioned again by either of the ladies until they had retired to rest. Then Mrs. Abercarne heard a voice calling softly, “Mother!” and she perceived by the light of the fire a pair of very wide-awake eyes on the pillow beside hers. “Yes, dear?” “Why do people always think that honesty must go with rough manners?” Mrs. Abercarne could not answer her. So she affected to laugh at the words as if they were a jest. But presently she asked in a rather tentative tone: “Don’t you like Mr. Bradfield then?” And the answer came very decidedly indeed: “No, mother, I don’t like him at all.” CHAPTER IV. THE GREAT MAN FROWNS. The next morning Chris was awakened by a stream of bright light coming between the window-curtains and when she looked out of the window, she gave a scream of delight. “Oh! mother--mother, this can’t be really November, or we can’t be really in foggy England!” she cried in an ecstasy, as she drank in, with greedy eyes, all the loveliness of fresh green grass, and the varied tints of trees in autumn. Their bed-room was at the front of the house, and looked inland over the flower-garden and the park. The beauty of the place became still more striking to their London eyes, when they went into the Chinese-room, and saw the view southwards over the sea, and westwards along the country road to little Wyngham, a mile away. But while Chris was chiefly occupied with the outlook from the windows, Mrs. Abercarne’s attention was directed to the interior of the house, and she made some discoveries in the broad daylight which the gracious glamour of candles had concealed from her. Curious lapses of knowledge or taste now betrayed themselves. She perceived a valuable oil-painting hanging on the wall between a chromo and an oleograph. A rare edition of Shakespeare stood in the bookcase, side by side with one which was cheap, worthless and modern. In china the collector’s lack of taste was still more evident; old and new, good and bad, were treated on equal terms. She made no comment aloud, however, having, after the experience of the previous evening, a discreet fear of being mysteriously overheard. When they had breakfasted, the head housemaid came up with a message from Mr. Bradfield, to the effect that he hoped they would begin the day by inspecting the house, and particularly his “collection.”