"I beg your pardon." He turned apologetically to the mother. "I only said that our name was Crossley, Mr. Hewson. And I wondered if you would care to have a bath." Charles Hewson looked at her gravely. "Are you always so charming, Mrs. Crossley, to the stranger within your gates? Especially when he’s a dirty-looking tramp like me." Then he smiled quickly; it was a trick of his, that sudden, fleeting smile. "I can think of nothing I’d like more than a bath, if I might so far trespass on your hospitality." *II* Lunch confirmed his diagnosis of the Crossley household. The girl’s father fitted in exactly with his mental picture; an utterly lovable, white-haired man of about sixty, and as unsophisticated as a child. Time, and the stress of things worldly, seemed to have passed over the little house near Umberleigh, leaving it untouched and scathless. And once again the contrast struck him, and he wondered, just a little bitterly, whether after all it was worth it. The instant decisions, the constant struggle, the ceaseless strain of his life—and then, this. Country cousins, vegetating in obscurity. It struck Charles Hewson that he wouldn’t object to being a vegetable for a while. He was tired, and he realized it for the first time. The last year had tried even him. It was a sudden impulse that made him suggest it, just as luncheon was over. "Is there a decent inn here, Mrs. Crossley, where I could put up for a bit? I’ve fallen in love with this place, and I want a rest." "You look tired," she answered, kindly. "And this is a wonderful place for a rest cure. But I’m afraid the inn is a long way off. If you care to"—she paused for a moment—"we could put you up for a few days." "I think you’re the kindest people I’ve ever met," said Hewson, and for a moment his eyes ceased to look tired. "And I warn you I’m not going to give you the chance of reconsidering your offer." "You’ll find it very dull," warned the girl. He laughed as he rose from the table. "I’m open to a small bet that you’ll have to drive me away. I shall become a fixture about the house." He followed them into the low, old-fashioned hall, and stood for a while drinking in the homeliness of it all. That was what it was—homely; and in London Charles Hewson lived in rooms and fed at his club or a restaurant. "I don’t know if you’re any judge of pewter, Mr. Hewson," said his host, "but we’ve got some nice bits here and in my study." "One step from that to postage-stamps," laughed the girl. "You’ve got to come and do a job of work in the garden later, Mr. Hewson, don’t forget. I’ll come and rescue you in half an hour or so." He watched her go upstairs, then with a little sigh of pure joy he followed the old man into his study. "Are you interested in philately, by any chance?" inquired Mr. Crossley, eagerly.