"Of course I shouldn't mind it, as I was saying a moment ago, for I have been in the world and seen as much as I want to see. I should feel quite content to live here always. I should never care for anything better than a bed at the 'Warfinger Hotel,' and a stroll now and then about the Midharsts' old place where the Fleureys once lived, a power in the state. But Maud living here! Monstrous! "I know what I'll do when I come back--I never thought of that before--I'll get the house in St. James's Square put in order, and she and Mrs. Grant shall go up there, and someone will bring out Maud, and she shall be the beauty of the year. All the town will talk of the lovely Miss Midharst. Then I can go and stay at Warfinger and--and see to improvements, and so on; and then if Maud wanted me she can write or telegraph. I can fill up a telegraph-form with only the word 'Come,' and she can keep it in her purse and send it off the moment she wishes to see me. I'll leave word at the telegraph-office in Daneford, that anyone bringing me that telegram in half an hour shall have a sovereign. "I daresay I could have a wire to the Island, so there need be no delay. But it would look strange. I'll make the messenger's fee five pounds, that will be better. "I shall keep a portmanteau always ready packed, so that there will be no delay after getting the telegram. Even supposing the telegram does not come for a week or fortnight, I may run up to London to see Maud and Mrs. Grant, and make my mind easy about them. "While they are away I can have alterations made. I can have all the repairs and alterations done while I am in Egypt overhauled and perfected. Maud may like many things changed; and, of course, anything Maud wants to be done shall be done. Of course. Fancy Maud saying she would like something or other done, and my saying, 'No, Maud; I cannot do that!' Fancy such a thing! I wish she would ask me for something. It is so dull to have nothing to do for Maud. "Before I knew Maud--it seems a long time, and yet it is only a few days: it is strange to think how long ago my previous life seems--how much time the past ten or a dozen days cover. I have often seen painters, when they had painted-in the solid objects of their pictures, go over parts with thin transparent colour, and, as if by magic, the ruin or the mountain that a moment ago pressed offensively forward retired into its proper place in the composition, and gathered round it mellow repose and forgetfulness. This glaze takes the heat and worry out of the picture. It gives it moist perfume and collected dignity. The few days I have spent here have acted like the glaze on the substantial background of facts in my past life. Why?