This room testified that its mistress was a lady. The furniture was heterogeneous—shabby for the most part, from an upholsterer’s point of view, old-fashioned without being antique; but there was nevertheless a _cachet_ upon every object which told that it had been chosen by a person of taste, from the tall Chippendale bureau which filled one corner of the room, to the solid carved oak table which held the tea-tray. The ornaments were few, but they were old china, and china of some mark from the collector’s point of view; the draperies were of Madras muslin, spotless, and fresh as a spring morning. Theodore noticed, however, that there were no flowers in the vases, and none of those scattered trifles which usually mark the presence of refined womanhood. The room would have had a bare and chilly aspect, lacking these things, if it had not been for a few pictures, and for the bookshelves, which were filled with handsomely bound books. “You have a nice library, Mrs. Porter,” he said, somewhat aimlessly, as he took a cup of tea from her hands. “I suppose you are a great reader?” “Yes, I read a great deal. I have my books and my garden. Those make up my sum of life.” “May I look at your books?” “If you like,” she answered coldly. He went about the small, low room—so low, with its heavily-timbered ceiling, that Cuthbert Ramsay’s head almost touched the crossbeams—and surveyed the collections of books in their different blocks. Whoever had so arranged them had exercised both taste and dexterity. Everything in the room fitted like a Chinese puzzle, and everything seemed to have been adapted to those few pieces of old furniture—the walnut-wood bureau, the oak table, and the old Italian chairs. The books were theological or metaphysical for the most part, but among them he found Carlyle’s “Sartor Resartus,” “Past and Present,” and “French Revolution;” Bulwer’s mystical stories, and a few books upon magic, ancient and modern. “I see you have a fancy for the black art, Mrs. Porter,” he said lightly. “One would hardly expect to find such books as these in the Isle of Purbeck.” “I like to know what men and women have built their hopes upon in the ages that are gone,” she answered. “Those dreams may seem foolishness to us now, but they were very real to the dreamers, and there were some who dreamed on till the final slumber—the one dreamless sleep.” This was the longest speech she had made since the young men entered her garden, and both were struck by this sudden gleam of animation. Even the large grey eyes brightened for a few moments, but only to fade again to that same dull, unflinching gaze which made them more difficult to meet than any other eyes Theodore Dalbrook had ever looked upon. That unflinching stare froze his blood; he felt a restraint and an embarrassment which no other woman had ever caused him.