He stooped and kissed her outstretched hand. The dreaded interview was over. He found his way into the hall and sat down at a writing-table, determined to get his letter off to Cydonia's father before lunch. "Dear Sir." He wrote the words on a sheet edged with an inch of black. Then tore it up and started again. "Suppose I must call him Mr. Cadell!" This done, he stared into space, searching for an opening phrase; faced with the problem of explaining the urgency of his trip abroad. "If I start by saying my uncle is dead it opens the question of my inheritance--I shall have to explain about my family and it makes the letter long-winded. Besides, I don't want him to know anything about the title. I'd rather, as I said before, go in and win as Peter McTaggart." He thought for a moment, then covered a page; read it through and crumpled it up. "Too colloquial--oh, hang! What on earth am I to say?" Like many men who talk easily, he could not put his thoughts on paper. For speech is merely to let loose words; writing to draw them close together. At last he flung down his pen. "It's no good!" He rose to his feet. "After all, he's got my wire, and I shall be back within the week. But I wish I could write to Cydonia..." He stood for a moment by the stove. "I do hope they're not worrying her, and that the child understands? I know the letter would never reach her, and I'd rather have it fair and square ... It would make things worse to do anything now the Cadells could call underhand!" He stretched his arms above his head with a yawn that ended in a sigh. Then started to explore his kingdom, casting dull care aside. He walked down the corridor, glancing at the statuary, and came, at last, to a pair of doors with a coat of arms carved above them. Here he hesitated for a second, wondering what lay within, and as he did so he heard a step shuffling along in his wake. He turned to find an old woman, her head shrouded in a shawl, clasping between her withered hands a rounded jar of baked clay. It had a high handle bridging it resembling that of a market basket, and over this the wrinkled face peered at him with sharp black eyes. "Buon' giorno," said McTaggart. He stared down at her burden. The old creature smiled back and held it out invitingly. He saw it was filled with hot ashes, the primitive brazier of the people. He warmed his hands for a moment against it, and then pointed to the door. "Si, si. Venga, Signore." She slipped past him and turned the handle and he found himself in a picture gallery, dimly lighted, with drawn blinds. The door closed, he was alone. Curiously he stared about him. Above his head was a painted ceiling, a battle scene, mellow with age, with the slightly artificial splendour of the early Sienese School. But from the walls, on every side, out of their dull gilded frames, faces peered down at him, measuring him with liquid eyes.