“A month or so of summer would be pleasant, spent in that way,” observed Mr. Asquith; “but to settle finally! Something morbid about him, I suppose; he looks, in fact, rather bloodless, like a man with a fixed idea. Ten to one, he’s on precisely the wrong tack; instead of wanting more of his own society, he ought to have less of it. I suppose he lives alone?” “Quite.” “The worst thing for any man. I shouldn’t dare to converse with myself exclusively for two consecutive days. The great, preservative of sanity is free intercourse with one’s fellow men--to see the world from all points, and to refrain from final conclusions.” Chat of this kind went on for a few minutes, all taking part in it except Ada. “You are fond of the country, Miss Warren,” Asquith said at length, addressing the latter directly. “Yes, I’m fond of the country,” was the reply, given in a mechanical way, and with a cold, steady look, whilst she ruffled the edges of her review. Asquith had found it at first difficult to determine whether the peculiarity of the girl’s behaviour were due to excessive shyness or to some more specific cause; but shyness it certainly was not, her manner of speaking and of regarding him put that out of the question. Did she, then, behave in this way to every stranger, or was he for some reason personally distasteful to her; or, again, had something just happened to disturb her temper? “Your liking for it, though, would scarcely go to the extent of leading you to take up a solitary abode in a labourers cottage?” “I can’t say,” Ada replied slowly. “One is often ready to do anything for the sake of being left alone.” “Ada would stipulate, however, to be supplied with the _Fortnightly_ or the _Nineteenth Century_,” put in Mrs. Clarendon laughingly. “If anything could drive me into the desert,” was Robert’s remark, “it would be the hope of never again being called upon to look at them. I shouldn’t wonder if Mr.--Mr. Kingcote, isn’t it?--has fled from civilisation for the very same reason. Probably he has cast away books, and aims at returning to the natural state of man.” “By no means,” said Isabel. “He has brought down quite a library.” “Alas!” exclaimed Robert, with a humorous shaking of the head, “then he is, I fear, engaged in adding to the burden which oppresses us. No wonder he hides his head; he is writing a book.” “Perhaps he is a poet, Mrs. Clarendon,” puts in Rhoda. “Perhaps so, Rhoda; and some day we may have pilgrims from all corners of the earth visiting the cottage he has glorified.” “With special omnibuses from Winstoke station,” added Robert, “and a colony of licensed victuallers thriving about the sacred spot.” “Let us be thankful,” exclaimed Isabel, “that a poet’s fame is usually deferred for a generation or two. Ha, there’s the first luncheon bell! It brings a smile to your face, Robert.” “Did I betray myself? I confess I breakfasted early.”