The house in which the Kenyons resided was built on the same pattern as Mr. Brooke's, but it was in some respects very unlike Mr. Brooke's place of residence. Maurice's consulting-room and dining-room corresponded, perhaps, to Mr. Brooke's dining-room and study: it was upstairs where the difference showed itself. Ethel's drawing-room was like herself--a little whimsical, a little bizarre; pretty, withal, and original, and somewhat unlike anything one had ever seen before. She was fond of novelties, and introduced the latest fashions in draperies or china or screens as soon as she could get hold of them; and the result was occasionally incongruous, though always bright and cheerful-looking. It was the incongruity of the ornaments and arrangements which chiefly struck the mind of Oliver Trent as he entered Ethel's drawing-room one afternoon, and stumbled over a footstool placed where no footstool ought to be. "I wish," he began, somewhat irritably, as he touched Ethel's forehead with his lips, "that you would not make your room quite so much like a fancy fair, Ethel." Ethel raised her eyebrows. "Why, Oliver, only the other day you said how pretty it was!" "Pretty! I hate the word. As if 'prettiness' could be taken as a test of what was best in art." "My room isn't 'art,'" pouted Ethel; "it's _me_." The sentence might be ungrammatical, but it was strictly true. The room represented Ethel's character exactly. It was odd, quaint, striking, and attractive. But Oliver was not in the mood to see its attractiveness. "It is certainly a medley," he replied, with some incisiveness. "How many styles do you think are represented in the place? Japanese, Egyptian, Renaissance, Louis Quinze, Queen Anne, Early Georgian----" "Oh, no! please don't go on!" cried Ethel, with mock earnestness. "_Not_ Early Georgian, please! Anything but that!" "It is all incongruous and out of taste," said Oliver, in an ill-tempered tone, and then he threw himself into a deep, comfortable lounging chair, and closed his eyes as if the sight of the room were too much for his nerves. Ethel remained standing: her pretty _mignonne_ figure was motionless; her bright face was thoughtful and overcast. "Do you mean," she said, quietly, "that I am incongruous and out of taste too!" There was a new note in her voice. Usually it was light and bird-like: now there was something a little more weighty, a little more serious, than had been heard in it before. Oliver noted the change, and moved his head restlessly; he did not want to quarrel with Ethel, but he was ill at ease in her presence, and therefore apt to be exceedingly irritable with her. "You wrest my words, of course," he answered. "You always do. There's no arguing with--with--a woman." "With _me_ you were about to say. Don't spare me. What other accusations have you to bring!" "Accusations! Nonsense!"