“What I say. Why are you waiting here?” “To see the sun set.” “It has set.” “I’m waiting for the afterglow.” And as she spoke, the whole sky from east to west flushed to a sudden lowering crimson. It was reflected on his face, on hers, shone from the many windows—red—red—a sea of golden red and copper colour, dyeing all things. “But you have no business out here after sunset, have you?” he said. “I don’t know. You should be judge of that.” “I’m judge of nothing except the mood I’m in, and to-day I’m not sorry to find you here; but it’s rather a dangerous game to play in a place where strict discipline is observed. Don’t you know it?” “No. I couldn’t imagine any punishment worse than being a prisoner.” “Could you not? Oh, there are many worse. You are a prisoner at large, you must remember.” “The reason why I stayed out is because I could think of nothing I had done wrong.” “Are you a good judge of your misdoings?” “I don’t know. A tongue makes things so complicated.” He laughed. “What have you been doing since I went away?” “Trying to be contented, and help Mariana.” “Help Mariana?” “Yes. I tried on a dress for her last night, but the room was so gloomy I dare not go again this morning.” “What kind of a dress were you trying on?” “A wedding-dress that gave me the shivers. Do you know, Mr. Barringcourt, I think Mariana the most splendid woman I ever met.” “Indeed.” “Yes, and I think she’s the most shamefully ill-used woman, too.” “No one is ill-used, except dogs and dumb animals in general.” Rosalie gave him one of her sidelong penetrating glances. “Well,” said she, “there are dumb animals and dumb animals; Mariana is dumb.” “Indeed!” “What I mean is, she never complains.” “Very sensible of her. There is no one to listen.” “There is Everard! She asks his advice upon everything.” “She told you that?” “Yes. She talks about everything but her own hard life.” “That is why you wish her to speak about it. Did she do so, you would wish her silent. The world is very contrary, Rosalie.” He stepped aside to let her pass before him down the narrow path. There was no alternative but to obey, as the sunset had now completely died away, and the dusk of night and its accompanying chilliness had wandered in, bringing a sense of desolation, of misery. The Master did not lead the way to the side door, but approached the central one. He let himself in by touching some spring acting in the toad’s head, and Rosalie followed with a creepy sense of awe as she passed between these high doors, with their magnificent workmanship all hidden in the dusk. The darkness of the big conservatory was partly dispelled by tiny electric lights, coloured crimson, that glimmered here and there among the foliage like glow-worms in a forest. As they passed the picture-gallery, Mr. Barringcourt noticed that the door was open. “Who has been in there?” he asked. “Mariana and I went this morning to see Mr. Todbrook’s portrait. Who painted it?”