"Quite a long time, isn't it?" Deleah answered him. "But I have not been living at home, you know; I--" He cut her short abruptly. "It is five months three weeks and two days," he said. "But the time has not been long to me. Looking back it seems that the time has almost flown." Deleah could not have felt flattered that this was so, but she told him she was glad to know that he was so happy. "Not happy," he said, "but looking forward to happiness; working for it." With that he went on again, stopping at the hall-door. "I think I've remembered your taste," he said as he threw the door open. "I've carried it out everywhere as far as it was possible." At that Deleah drew back. "I will look over your house some other time," she said. "It is late. I must be getting home now." "Do you call the Forcus's place your home?" "For the present. I am leaving there soon." "The sooner the better. Come in." He put a heavy and peremptory hand upon her arm and drew her over the threshold, across the tiny passage called the hall, into one of the two bow-windowed rooms. "This is the dining-room," he said. "Sit down." To free her arm from his hand she obeyed him, and with an effort to appear very much at her ease looked about her. "What a sweet little room!" she said. "You like it? I thought you would. Look at the picture over the sideboard." It was a large print--much too large for the room--of "The Last Sleep of Argyle," and was faced on the opposite wall by a reproduction of "The Execution of Montrose." "They're proof prints," he told her proudly. "I remember you went to see those pictures, years ago, when they were on show in Brockenham, and liked them. I've had the chairs covered with red leather 'stead of horsehair. It costs more, but you used to say red was cheerful." "It is so very nice, Mr. Gibbon." "In the drawing-room there is a piano. Come and see." She went, because of that strange new peremptoriness of manner which she felt she had not the moral courage to disobey. The drawing-room had fresh flowers in a vase upon the centre table. "Did you put the flowers there, Mr. Gibbon?" "I put them there every day. For you. I have been waiting for you to come to see them. Everything is always ready. You like it all?" "Yes, indeed." "It is yours, then. It is all for you. From cowl on the chimney-pot--the kitchen-chimney smoked; I thought it would be inconvenient--to the bunch of honeysuckle on the table. All yours." "Oh no, Mr. Gibbon." "All yours. Every carpet has been laid down for you, every chair and table bought. Every seed has been sown, every tree planted. For you."