"So glad you were near enough to turn in here for shelter!" he exclaimed, shaking hands with us warmly. "I see that neither of you expected rain--now, I did, and I went out prepared." "We made for the first door we saw," said Miss Raven. "But we'd no idea it was yours, Dr. Lorrimore. And do tell me!--the Chinese," she continued, in a whisper. "Is he your man-servant?" Lorrimore laughed, rubbing his hands together. That day he was not in the solemn, raven-hued finery in which he had visited Ravensdene Court; instead he wore a suit of grey tweed, in which, I thought, he looked rather younger and less impressive than in black. But he was certainly no ordinary man, and as he stood there smiling at Miss Raven's eager face, I felt conscious that he was the sort of somewhat mysterious, rather elusive figure in which women would naturally be interested. "Man-servant!" he said, with another laugh. "He's all the servant I've got. Wing--he's too or three other monosyllabic patronymics, but Wing suffices--is an invaluable person. He's a model cook, valet, launderer, general factotum--there's nothing that he can't or won't do, from making the most perfect curries--I must have Mr. Raven to try them against the achievements of his man!--to taking care about the halfpennies, when he goes his round of the tradesmen. Oh, he's a treasure--I assure you, Miss Raven, you could go the round of this house, at any moment, without finding a thing out of place or a speck of dust in any corner. A model!" "You brought him from India, I suppose?" said I. "I brought him from India, yes," he answered. "He'd been with me for some time before I left. So, of course, we're thoroughly used to each other." "And does he really like living--here?" asked Miss Raven. "In such absolutely different surroundings?" "Oh, well, I think he's a pretty good old hand at making the best of the moment," laughed Lorrimore. "He's a philosopher. Deep--inscrutable--in short, he's Chinese. He has his own notions of happiness. At present he's supremely happy in getting you some tea--you mightn't think it, but that saffron-faced Eastern can make an English plum-cake that would put the swellest London pastry-cook to shame! You must try it!" The Chinaman presently summoned us to tea, which he had laid out in another room--obviously Lorrimore's dining-room. There was nothing Oriental in that; rather, it was eminently Victorian, an affair of heavy furniture, steel engravings, and an array, on the sideboard, of what, I suppose, was old family plate. Wing ushered us and his master in with due ceremony and left us; when the door had closed on him, Lorrimore gave us an arch glance.