Titus. This was his work. And he had been paid money for conceiving—_this_. There were possibly two other chambers under this very roof which he had—decorated. More. All over England there were rooms with chocolate friezes and bright pink doors, bearing the Cheviot cipher, the hall-mark of style—_the badge of infamy_. As like as not he had done five or six to-day—_at one hundred guineas apiece_. . . . And there he was walking about, all cheerful and unsuspecting, while battle, murder and sudden death at the hands of infuriated clients must be crouching to spring upon his shoulders. Any moment the storm must break. Why hadn’t there been protests—riots? Why hadn’t Old Bond Street—— Here her host reappeared to say that a car would be ready in half an hour. Blanche tried to thank him and to keep her eyes on the floor. . . . Twenty-five ghastly minutes went halting by. Mrs. Cheviot swallowed some tea, toyed with a scone, the very sight of which choked her, and by superhuman efforts succeeded in keeping the slippery ball of conversation upon the field of sport. Out of doors, out of mind. . . . It was natural that hunting should figure, if late, upon her list. “My husband used to hunt with the Quorn, and I’ve done a bit with the Heythrop, but not just lately. It’s so frightfully expensive now. There’s nothing quite like it, of course.” “My dear lady,” said Mr. Blatchbourne, “a good day with the hounds is more physically and mentally exhilarating than any exercise I know. It brings out the best in every man. All his senses are regaled with the finest and purest fare. The movement of the horse beneath him, the music of the pack, the smell of the countryside——” “And the colour,” cried Blanche excitedly. “You’re perfectly right. No one can witness a meet without feeling the better for the sight. Why will men wear pink in the evening? The only place for pink is out in the open air on the top of a ripping horse. Then it’s just——” “I agree,” said her host grimly. “Then it’s superb. How does it look there?” Blanche started violently. Then as a matter of form she suffered her gaze to follow the damning finger. “I—I—frankly, I don’t quite like it,” she stammered. “You know. It seems out of place.” “It is,” said Mr. Blatchbourne. “Those doors are of oak.” Mrs. Cheviot shuddered. “Even if they were of deal, I should not have chosen pink. Look at the walls,” he continued. Blanche obeyed tremulously. “Above all, observe the ceiling. And then that chimney-piece. I was away at the time, but I’m told they rigged up a derrick to get that in place.” “You—you were away?” “Unhappily—yes. Otherwise my wife would not have been bamboozled and betrayed, madam, into seeking and then taking the advice of as arrant a gang of scoundrels as ever bluffed a fool out of his money.” White to the lips— “How—how terrible,” quavered Mrs. Cheviot.