He went under the archway into the grassy quadrangle, where the low stone mullioned windows faced him with their dull blank look, as of windows out of which no one ever looked. There was a low door in a corner, studded with iron nails--and a bell that would have been loud enough for a means of communication with a house a quarter of a mile away. This noisy bell clanged out unmercifully in the afternoon quiet. ‘He will never forgive me for ringing such a peal as that,’ thought Cyril. The staid old butler looked at him wonderingly when he asked if Mr. Harefield was at home. Visitors were rare at the Water House. ‘He is at home,’ answered the butler, dubiously, as much as to say, ‘but he won’t see you.’ ‘Will you say that I wish to see him--upon particular business?’ The butler led the way to the drawing-room, without a word. He had heard Mr. Culverhouse preach, at odd times, though himself a member of the Little Yafford Baptists, and had too much respect for his cloth to express his opinion as to the uselessness of this proceeding. He led the way to the drawing-room and left Cyril there. It was a pretty room, despite the gloom that had fallen upon it. A long old room, with oak panelling, a richly carved cornice, and a low ceiling, a few good Italian pictures, a tall pillared marble chimney-piece, broad Tudor windows looking towards the river, deep recesses filled with books, and chairs and sofas of the Louis Seize period, covered with Gobelins tapestry. But there was no sign of occupation--no open piano--not a book out of its place--not a newspaper or pamphlet on the tables. Everything was in perfect order, as in a house that is shown and not lived in. This was the first time Cyril had been under the roof that sheltered Beatrix. He looked around him for some trace of her presence, but he saw no such trace. Did she inhabit this room? No, it was evidently a room in which no one lived. He went to one of the windows and looked out. He could just see the lonely figure at the end of the river walk, bare-headed under the sunless sky--a figure full of grace and dignity, to his eye, as it moved slowly along, the face turned towards the bridge. ‘Poor child, she is watching for me, perhaps,’ he thought with tender sadness, ‘waiting and fearing.’ ‘My master will be pleased to see you, sir,’ said the voice in the doorway, and Cyril turned to follow the butler. He followed him down a corridor that went the whole length of the house. The butler opened a deep-set oak door, thick enough for a gaol, and gravely announced the visitor. It was a very solemn thing altogether, Cyril felt. He found himself in a large low room, lined from floor to ceiling with books on carved oak shelves. A sombre brownness prevailed throughout the room. All that was not brown leather was brown oak. Three low windows looked into a courtyard. A pile of damp logs smouldered on the wide stone hearth. Cyril had never entered a more gloomy room.