The room was scrupulously tidy, but so cheerless; he tried to remember how it had all been long ago (he thought it was long ago), before he had been ill, before his sister Anne and the girls had come to him; and he remembered the dreary and desolate feeling of illness creeping over him, and how he had then suffered. A pile of letters, neatly arranged, lay upon his writing-table, and he looked them over. There was one from his sister and he took it up. It was not very long, but it filled him with a certain uneasiness. Mrs. Dorriman, always anxious to fulfil her trust and to show herself worthy of her responsibilities, sketched their life for his benefit, and, without laying undue stress upon the fact, let him know that another person was ready to show his appreciation for Margaret. And he so wanted Margaret to be at home with him, at any rate for some few years. She was so young, and, if her sister was only disposed of, he thought she would grow to like him. Why was it always Margaret? Mrs. Dorriman also mentioned the glimpse they had had of Mr. Drayton, the man he had hoped so much from, who seemed so frank and who was so reserved, and who had disappointed and baffled him in so many ways. He also wanted Margaret. He had been there by accident. Of course he would go back again, and Mr. Sandford rose and paced the room, stopping to stir the fire violently, so violently that the newly-lit sticks collapsed, the coal smothered the flickering flame and the fire went out. With an exclamation of annoyance, Mr. Sandford rang the bell. It was answered by Jean, nerved for the occasion, who had been matching for an opportunity to speak to him, much too greatly in awe of him to walk in upon him without an opening. She looked at the fire and understood what had happened, went off for fresh sticks, laid and new-lit the fire in a few seconds, and then confronted him, and asked him if he wanted anything else. "When am I to have dinner?" he asked, abruptly. "You can have something to eat now if you please; dinner can be any time after seven," said Jean. "You look cold, sir?" "The house is like an iceberg," he said in a grumbling and complaining tone, "quite enough to give one cold." "It's cheerless and dull, and cold enough, sir, without any one, but just only a man," said Jean. "It's not much comfort to a man being alone." "Have you heard from Mrs. Dorriman?" he asked. "Oh, certainly, sir, she writes whiles to me." "I have a letter, I suppose she is well?" "She does not complain of ill health; not that Mrs. Dorriman's given to complaining," said Jean; "she'll put up with a great deal, will Mrs. Dorriman, sooner than speak a word." Did she mean anything by this? Mr. Sandford glanced keenly at her, and thought it best to say nothing. "What time do you wish to eat your dinner, sir?" inquired Jean. "Oh! any time after seven," he answered, and there was a certain weariness in his tone that struck her.