The Ronders had taken this house a month ago; for two months before that it had stood desolate, wisps of paper and straw blowing about it, its "To let" notice creaking and screaming in every wind. The Hon. Mrs. Pentecoste, an eccentric old lady, had lived there for many years, and had died in the middle of a game of patience; her worn and tattered furniture had been sold at auction, and the house had remained unlet for a considerable period because people in the town said that the ghost of Mrs. Pentecoste's cat (a famous blue Persian) walked there. The Ronders cared nothing for ghosts; the house was exactly what they wanted. It had two panelled rooms, two powder-closets, and a little walled garden at the back with fruit trees. It was quite wonderful what Miss Ronder had done in a month; she had abandoned Eaton Square for a week, worked in the Polchester house like a slave, then retired back to Eaton Square again, leaving Mrs. Clay, her aide-de-camp, to manage the rest. Mrs. Clay had managed very well. She would not have been in the service of the Ronders for nearly fifteen years had she not had a gift for managing.... Ronder, washed and brushed, came down to tea, looked about him, and saw that all was good. "I congratulate you, Aunt Alice," he said--"excellent!" Miss Ronder very slightly flushed. "There are a lot of things still to be done," she said; nevertheless she was immensely pleased. The drawing-room was charming. The stencilled walls, the cushions of the chairs, the cover of a gate-legged table, the curtains of the mullioned windows were of a warm dark blue. And whatever in the room was not blue seemed to be white, or wood in its natural colour, or polished brass. Books ran round the room in low white book-cases. In one corner a pure white Hermes stood on a pedestal with tiny wings outspread. There was only one picture, an excellent copy of "Rembrandt's mother." The windows looked out to the garden, now veiled by the dusk of evening. Tea was on a little table close to the white tiled fireplace. A little square brass clock chimed the half-hour as Ronder came in. "I suppose Ellen will be over," Ronder said. He drank in the details of the room with a quite sensual pleasure. He went over to the Hermes and lifted it, holding it for a moment in his podgy hands. "You beauty!" he whispered aloud. He put it back, turned round to his aunt. "Of course Ellen will be over," he repeated. "Of course," Miss Ronder repeated, picking up the old square black lacquer tea-caddy and peering into it. He picked up the books on the table--two novels, _Sentimental Tommy_, by J. M. Barrie, and _Sir George Tressady_, by Mrs. Humphry Ward, Mr. Swinburne's _Tale of Balen_, and _The Works of Max Beerbohm_. Last of all Leslie Stephen's _Social Rights and Duties_. He looked at them all, with their light yellow Mudie labels, their fresh bindings, then, slowly and very carefully, put them back on the table.