‘Why do you and John and your father persist in reading reviews?’ she asked, with asperity. ‘The book stupid?—as likely as not it was the reviewer who was stupid. _I_ know them. It is a very clever book, but of course if you read that review of it, it would spoil it for you. I do wish I could cure you of reading reviews. It spoils one’s pleasure so, and does not the least good.’ ‘I’ll try to give it up,’ said Nita, meekly. ‘Shall we go with you to the great gate? Mr. Wellfield, would you like to come?’ Jerome accompanied the two ladies to the great gate. Then Nita thought she would walk on with Miss Shuttleworth to her house, and Jerome thought he would stroll round the grounds. Nita told him that they supped at half-past eight, and she disappeared with Miss Shuttleworth through the gate. Jerome wandered back along the river walk, and through the old gardens, and strolled and loitered amongst the trees. Presently the sun declined, and gorgeous hues of purple and gold and crimson set the western sky ablaze, and coloured the water of the river with changing tints. The trees waved softly overhead—the water murmured placidly as it rolled by. All was still and quiet, and he tried to realise that he was here—a stranger. It was all so familiar as to be almost weirdly so. These strange faces, strange owners, jarred upon him. He could not understand how they came to be so at home there—so at ease in _his_ home. As for him—when he should have supplied Monk’s Gate with a little furniture, just enough to make it habitable, and established Avice here, his ready-cash would be almost exhausted, and then what was to become of him? The pittance—not certain, but probable—of which Mr. Netley had spoken, remained. He could not live upon that—he might die upon it, starve upon it, go mad upon it; he could not live upon it—as a man with his ideas, his hopes, his inborn, inbred habits and feelings, understands life, even in its narrowest sense. After a long time spent in such meditations—meditations which dimmed the beauty of the sunset, and marred the evening’s glory, he looked up, and found that the pomp of the _Sonnenuntergang_ was over; the purple and gold had disappeared; the sky was grey again. It must be supper-time. He bent his steps towards the house.