“Yes,” he said, “those things are gardens, the gardens of the Abbey. The canons and people have their houses there.” “Very comfortable and nice,” said she. “Plenty of grass. And the trees aren’t bad, either, for town trees. It must be rather fun to be a canon. As I live,” she cried, turning back into the room, “you’ve got a Pleyel. This is the first Pleyel I’ve seen in England. Let me congratulate you on your taste in pianos.” And with her gloved hands she struck a chord and made a run or two. “You’ll need the tuner soon, though. It’s just the shadow of a shadow out. I was brought up on Pleyels. Do you know, I’ve half a mind to make you a confidence?” she questioned brightly. “Oh, do make it, I pray you,” he encouraged her. “Well, then, I believe, if you were to offer me a chair, I believe I could bring myself to sit down,” she admitted. “I beg your pardon,” he exclaimed; and she sank rustling into the chair that he pushed forward. “Well, now for my business,” said she. “Would you just put this thing somewhere?” She offered him her sunshade, which he took and handled somewhat gingerly. “Oh, you needn’t be afraid. It’s quite tame,” she laughed, “though I admit it looks a bit ferocious. What a sweet room you’ve got—so manny, and smoky, and booky. Are they all real books?” “More or less real,” he answered; “as real as any books ever are that a fellow gets for review.” “Oh, you got them for review?” she repeated, with vivacity. “How terribly exciting. I’ve never seen a book before that’s actually passed through a reviewer’s hands. They don’t look much the worse for it. Whatever else you said about them, I trust you didn’t deny that they make nice domestic ornaments. But this isn’t business. You wouldn’t call this business?” she enquired, with grave curiosity. “No, I should call this pleasure,” he assured her, laughing. “Would you?” She raised her eyebrows. “Ah, but then you’re English.” “Aren’t you?” asked he. “Do I look English?” “I’m not sure.” He hesitated for a second, studying her. “You certainly don’t dress English.” “Heaven forbid Δ She made a fervent gesture. “I’m a miserable sinner, but at least I’m incapable of that. However, if you were really kind, you’d affect just a little curiosity to know the errand to which you owe my presence.” “I’m devoured by curiosity,” he declared. Again she raised her eyebrows. “You are? Then why don’t you show it?” “Perhaps because I have a sense of humour—amongst other reasons,” he suggested, smiling. “Well, since you’re devoured by curiosity, you must know,” she began; but broke off suddenly—“Apropos, I wonder whether you could be induced to tell me something.” “I daresay I could, if it’s anything within my sphere of knowledge.” He paused, expectant. “Then tell me, please, why you keep your Japanese fan in your fireplace,” she requested. “Why shouldn’t I? Doesn’t it strike you as a good place for it?”