She let the implied boast of word and manner pass without debate and went on self-accusingly: "You've treated yourself very much like an old house being torn to pieces and done over to satisfy the whims and eccentricities of a new tenant." Tollman affected a manner meant to be debonair, but his thought was divided and uncontrollable impulse drew his glance shiftily to the table. "Well, suppose that I have tried to change myself, why shouldn't I? I love you. I'm eager to demonstrate that I'm not too old a dog to learn new tricks." She only shook her head, and, finding words more tolerable than silence, he proceeded: "I've discovered the fountain which Ponce de Leon missed. Henceforth I mean to go on growing younger." "And yet, Eben--" She was still looking at him with that directness which hinted at some thought foreign to her words--something as yet unmentioned which had left her unstrung. "It's not really a congenial role to you--this one of reshaping your life. At heart you hate it.... This house proves that. So does this room--and its contents." The pause which separated the final words brought a sinking sensation at the pit of his stomach, and the discomfort of a fencer, dueling in the dark--a swordsman who recognizes that his cleverness is outmatched. His question came with a staccato abruptness. "How is that?" Conscience rose from her chair and for a moment stood letting her eyes travel about the walls, the furniture, the pictures. As they wandered, the husband's gaze followed them, and when they rested for an instant on the open strong box and the untidy papers, his alarm gained a brief mastery so that he stepped hurriedly forward, placing himself between her and the danger. "What were you saying?" he questioned nervously. "I was calling your attention to this room. Look at it. If you didn't, at heart, hate all change--all innovation, you couldn't have lived here this long without having altered it." "Altered it--why?" Conscience laughed. "Well, because it's all unspeakably depressing, for one thing. Outside of prisons, I doubt if there is anything drearier in the world than Landseer engravings in black frames and fantastically grained pine trying to be oak--unless it's hair-cloth sofas and portraits that have turned black." The lord of the manor spoke in a crestfallen manner, touched with perplexity. To what was all this a preamble? "That portrait is of an ancestor of mine," he said and his wife once more laughed, though this time his anxiety fancied there was irony in it. "All right," she said, "but wouldn't it have been quite as respectful and much more cheerful to send him on a visit to some painter who takes in dingy ancestors and does them over?" "I hadn't thought of it," he acknowledged, but the idea did not seem to delight him. "No." They were still standing, she facing the table and he facing her, making of his shoulders as wide a screen as possible.