Then the door opened, and the two younger men came in. Lady Heritage looked up for a moment, and then went back to her _Revue_. She made no attempt to entertain Captain March, who, for his part, showed some desire to be entertained. “You are using the big rooms, I see. Aunt Mary always said they were too cold. You remember she always sat in the Blue Parlour, or the little oak room at the head of the stair.” Raymond’s lip lifted slightly. “I’m afraid the Blue Parlour would not be very comfortable now,” she said without looking up. Henry possessed a persevering nature. He produced, in rapid succession, a remark about the weather, an inquiry as to the productiveness of the kitchen garden, and a comment upon the pleasant warmth of the log fire. The first and last of these efforts elicited no reply at all. To the question about the garden produce Lady Heritage answered that she had no idea. Mr. Ember’s habitual expression of cynicism became a trifle more marked. Jane had the feeling that the pressure in the atmosphere was steadily on the increase. “Won’t you sing something, Raymond,” said Henry. His pleasant ease of manner appeared quite impervious to snubs. Lady Heritage closed the _Revue des Deux Mondes_ and, for the first time, looked full at Captain March. If he was startled by the furious resentment of that gaze he did not show it. “And what do you expect me to sing, Henry?” she said—“the latest out of the _Jazz Girls_?” “I don’t mind; whatever you like, but do sing, won’t you?” Raymond got up with an abrupt movement. Walking to one of the long windows which opened upon the terrace, she drew the heavy yellow brocade curtain back with a jerk. Beyond the glass the terrace lay in deepest shadow, but moonlight touched the sea. She bent, drew the bolt, and opened half the door. “The room is stifling,” she said. “Jeffrey, it’s your fault they pile the fire up so. I wish you’d sometimes look at a calendar and realise that this is April, not January.” Then, turning, she crossed to the piano. “If I sing, it will be to please myself, and I shall probably not please any one else.” Ember came forward and opened the piano. He bent as he did so, and said a few words very low. She answered him. Henry, left by the fireside with Jane, leaned forward conversationally, the last _Punch_ in his hand. “This is a good cartoon,” he said. “Have you seen it, Miss Molloy?” And as she bent to look at the page, he added in that low, effaced tone which does not carry a yard: “Which room have they given you?” “I like the line,” said Jane in her clear voice, “and that very black shadow.” Then, in an almost soundless breath—“The end room, south wing.” “Don’t go to bed,” said Henry. “Wonderful how they keep it up, week after week. I mean to say, it must put you off your stroke like anything, knowing you’ve got to come right up to time like that.” “Your department doesn’t work by the calendar, then? You don’t have to bother about results?”