"What's this, Owen? Oh--your house at Willowhurst, isn't it? By Jove, it's a lovely place--I wonder you don't live there." The moment he had spoken he would willingly have recalled his words, but Owen gave him no time. "You forget--I was going to live there!" His smile was forced. "The people who have had it for years cleared out last October, and it was all put in apple-pie order then, in anticipation of my wife's arrival." Barry, red and embarrassed, said nothing, but examined the photograph with unnecessary minuteness. "Seems a pity the place should stand idle," went on Owen musingly. "It's a jolly old house, and been in the family for centuries--built before the river became fashionable--and the grounds are really fine; some gorgeous old trees and shrubs in them." "How far from town?" Barry put the first question that suggested itself. "Oh, not far--twenty or thirty miles. You can get up easily in a car or by a fast train. Greenriver--that's the house--is really charmingly situated, with big grounds at the back, and the river just beneath the house." "You lived there as a youngster?" "Yes. When my father died my mother couldn't bear to live there, and we let the place. After her death I could have gone back, but somehow I didn't want to. It was only when I met Vivian----" He broke off suddenly, and springing to his feet, began to pace up and down. "By Jove, Barry, what fools we men make of ourselves over women! Just because Vivian was kind, smiled on me, seemed really interested in my affairs, I told her everything--all sorts of things I haven't even told you, old chap! We used to go for strolls together in the summer evenings--once or twice we motored down to Richmond and went for a walk in the park ... we used to talk about all sorts of things ... women are the very deuce for leading men on to talk. They pretend to be so interested, ask such gentle little questions, are so sympathetic, so kind ... and when it comes to sport, a girl like Vivian can talk as well as any man." He sighed impatiently. "We didn't talk sentiment--those days. We were chums--the best of chums ... discussed flying, motoring--she used to drive a little car of her own. Sometimes we played golf--and, by Jove, she could pretty nearly beat me! She was interested in all the things I liked, was a rattling good shot with a rifle, and hadn't a nerve in her. Clever, too; could talk on all sorts of subjects, and had read books I'd never even heard of! She spoke three or four languages ... but--but it wasn't that." He broke off in his rambling talk to light a cigarette, and then continued, in the same musing tone.