The china ornaments had gone, the brass candlesticks. The big horsehair-covered chair had been re-covered in shrimp-colored plush. The plaster walls were papered. The thick oak beam above had been whitened with the rest of the ceiling. She thought that the room looked much more light and cheerful, much more suitable for a dining-room. But it was empty. There was no hint of Jethro, no gun in the corner, no cloth cap thrown carelessly down, no heavy boots drying on the hearth; one wouldn’t expect any of those things now. And yet their absence depressed her. She glided across the thickly-carpeted floor--it was a new carpet--and looked into his own particular little room. Nothing had changed there. The bureau from which he had taken the notes for Edred was open. The shabby rugs were kicked up, the plaster on the walls was in places discolored. His bicycle, all muddy, leaned against the window ledge, his gun, his boots, his cap, his thick woolen gloves were strewn about with masculine carelessness. “The last thing in the house that a man changes is his own room,” she said, looking tenderly at a shapeless, deplorable old shooting jacket which hung limply on a chair. “But she will make him tidy this place up.” She! She! She! Who was this girl? She ran through the list of likely maidens--every Jayne or Crisp or Turle or Furlonger under thirty-five. It couldn’t be Peggy Crisp of Liddleshorn. It was probably silly, pretentious Maria Furlonger of the Warren, as Barbara had said. She turned away, feeling a quick, painful affection for this little, dirty, dim, north room of his--the only room left untouched. She turned away, opened the other door, and went along the corridor, thinking that she might find him in the drawing-room. It was most unlikely; he disliked that room. But then he had always disliked coal fires, new furniture, many lights about the house. She was beginning to realize that only the unlikely would happen at Folly Corner that night.