“It is strange,” said he. “My father spent most of his life on a monumental work on Pascal. He was a Professor of Divinity at a Scotch University, but died long before the monument could be completed. I’ve got his manuscripts. They’re in an awful mess, and it would take another lifetime to get them into order. Anyhow, he took good care that I should remember Pascal as long as I lived.” “How?” “He had me christened Blaise.” “Blaise Olifant,” she repeated critically. She laughed. “He might have done worse.” He turned over the pages. “There’s one thing here that my father was always drumming into me. Yes, here it is. It’s marked in blue pencil.” “Then it must have been drummed into me, too,” said Olivia. “‘_On ne consulte que l’oreille, parce qu’on manque de cœur. La règle est l’honnêteté._´” “Yes,” she said, with a sigh. He replaced the book. They went in silence out to the landing. After a few seconds of embarrassment they turned and descended to the hall. “I can more than understand, Miss Gale, why you feel you can’t let the house. But I’m sorry.” She weakened, foreseeing the house empty and desolate, given over to dust and mice and ghosts. “It was the idea of a pack of people, the British Family in all its self-centredness and selfishness, coming in here that I couldn’t stand,” she confessed. “Then is there a chance for me?” he asked, his face brightening. “Look. I’m open to a bargain. The house is just what I want. I’m not a recluse. I’m quite human. I should like to have a place where I can put up a man or so for a week-end, and I’ve a married sister, none too happy, who now and then might like to find a refuge with me. There’s also a friend, rather a distinguished fellow, who wants to join me for a few months’ quiet and hard work. So, suppose I give you my promise to hold that room sacred, to keep it just as it is and allow no one to go into it except a servant to dust and so forth—what would you say? Not now. Think it over and write to me at your convenience.” His sympathy and comprehension had won her over. He was big and kind and brotherly. Somehow she felt that her mother would have liked him, accepting him without question as one of her own caste, and would have smiled on him as High Priest in charge of the Household Gods. She reflected for a while, then, meeting his eyes: “You can have the house, Major Olifant,” she said seriously. He bowed. “I’m sure you will not regret it,” said he. “I ought to remind you, however,” he added after a pause, “that I may have a stable companion for a few months. The distinguished fellow I mentioned. I wonder whether you’ve heard of Alexis Triona.” “The man who wrote _Through Blood and Snow_?” “Have you read it?” “Of course I have,” cried Olivia. “What do you think I do here all day? Twiddle my thumbs or tell my fortune by cards?” “I hope you think it’s a great book,” he said, with a smile. “An amazing book. And you’re going to bring him to live here? What’s he like?”