“Rendez-vous in the kitchen, Mrs. Rabbit,” said Mr. Brumley, firmly, and Mrs. Rabbit after a moment of mute struggle disappeared discontentedly. “I do not want to be the least bit a bother,” said the lady. “I’m intruding, I know, without the least bit of notice. I _do_ hope I’m not disturbing you——” she seemed to make an effort to stop at that, and failed and added—“the least bit. Do please tell me if I am.” “Not at all,” said Mr. Brumley. “I hate my afternoon’s walk as a prisoner hates the treadmill.” “She’s such a nice old creature.” “She’s been a mother—and several aunts—to us ever since my wife died. She was the first servant we ever had.” “All this house,” he explained to his visitor’s questioning eyes, “was my wife’s creation. It was a little featureless agent’s house on the edge of these pine-woods. She saw something in the shape of the rooms—and that central hall. We’ve enlarged it of course. Twice. This was two rooms, that is why there is a step down in the centre.” “That window and window-seat——” “That was her addition,” said Mr. Brumley. “All this room is—replete—with her personality.” He hesitated, and explained further. “When we prepared this house—we expected to be better off—than we subsequently became—and she could let herself go. Much is from Holland and Italy.” “And that beautiful old writing-desk with the little single rose in a glass!” “She put it there. She even in a sense put the flower there. It is renewed of course. By Mrs. Rabbit. She trained Mrs. Rabbit.” He sighed slightly, apparently at some thought of Mrs. Rabbit. “You—you write——” the lady stopped, and then diverted a question that she perhaps considered too blunt, “there?” “Largely. I am—a sort of author. Perhaps you know my books. Not very important books—but people sometimes read them.” The rose-pink of the lady’s cheek deepened by a shade. Within her pretty head, her mind rushed to and fro saying “Brumley? Brumley?” Then she had a saving gleam. “Are you _George_ Brumley?” she asked,—“_the_ George Brumley?” “My name _is_ George Brumley,” he said, with a proud modesty. “Perhaps you know my little Euphemia books? They are still the most read.” The lady made a faint, dishonest assent-like noise; and her rose-pink deepened another shade. But her interlocutor was not watching her very closely just then. “Euphemia was my wife,” he said, “at least, my wife gave her to me—a kind of exhalation. _This_”—his voice fell with a genuine respect for literary associations—“was Euphemia’s home.” “I still,” he continued, “go on. I go on writing about Euphemia. I have to. In this house. With my tradition.... But it is becoming painful—painful. Curiously more painful now than at the beginning. And I want to go. I want at last to make a break. That is why I am letting or selling the house.... There will be no more Euphemia.” His voice fell to silence.