The Squire gave an angry sigh, slipped out of the visitor's way through a shrubbery, and returned to his library. Fires had begun, and the glow of the burning logs shone through the room. The return to this home of his chief studies and pursuits during many delightful years was always, at any hour of the day or year, a moment of pleasure to the Squire. Here was shelter, here was escape--both from the troubles he had brought upon himself, and from the world tumult outside, the work of crazy politicians and incompetent diplomats. But if there was any season when the long crowded room was more attractive than at any other, it was in these autumn evenings when firelight and twilight mingled, and the natural 'homing' instinct of the Northerner, accustomed through long ages to spend long winters mostly indoors, stirred in his blood. His books, too, spoke to him; and the beautiful dim forms of bronzes and terra-cottas, with all their suggestions of high poetry and consummate art, breathing from the youth of the world. He understood--passionately--the jealous and exclusive temper of the artist. It was his own temper--though he was no practising artist--and accounted largely for his actions. What are politics--or social reform--or religion--or morals--compared to _art_? The true artist, it has been pleaded again and again, has no country. He follows Beauty wherever she pitches her tent--'an hourly neighbour.' Woe to the interests that conflict with this interest! He simply drives them out of doors, and turns the key upon them! This, in fact, was the Squire's defence of himself, whenever he troubled to defend himself. As to the pettinesses of a domineering and irritable temper, cherished through long years, and flying out on the smallest occasions--the Squire conveniently forgot them, in those rare moments of self-vision which were all the gods allowed him. Of course he was master in his own house and estate--why not? Of course he fought those who would interfere with him, war or no war--why not? He sat down to his table, very sorry for himself, and hotly indignant with an unreasonable woman. The absence of her figure from the table on the further side of the room worked upon his nerves. She had promised at least to stay her month. These were working hours. What was she doing? She could hardly be packing already! He tried to give his attention to the notes he had been working at the day before. Presently he wanted a reference--a line from the _Philoctetes_. 'The Lemnian fire'--where on earth was the passage? He lifted his head instinctively. If only she had been there--it was _monstrous_ that she wasn't there!--he would just have thrown the question across the room, and got an answer. Her verbal memory was astonishing--much better than his.