Her marriage had carried Ellen out of the narrow world of home and school into another that had seemed at first vastly larger, if only on account of its freedom from the perpetual achievement of small economies. Hitherto the urgent necessity of these had filled life with irksome precautions and clipped the wings of every dream. This new life into which Sir Isaac led her by the hand promised not only that release but more light, more colour, more movement, more people. There was to be at any rate so much in the way of rewards and compensation for her pity of him. She found the establishment at Putney ready for her. Sir Isaac had not consulted her about it, it had been his secret, he had prepared it for her with meticulous care as a surprise. They returned from a honeymoon in Skye in which the attentions of Sir Isaac and the comforts of a first-class hotel had obscured a marvellous background of sombre mountain and wide stretches of shining sea. Sir Isaac had been very fond and insistent and inseparable, and she was doing her best to conceal a strange distressful jangling of her nerves which she now feared might presently dispose her to scream. Sir Isaac had been goodness itself, but how she craved now for solitude! She was under the impression now that they were going to his mother’s house in Highbury. Then she thought he would have to go away to business for part of the day at any rate, and she could creep into some corner and begin to think of all that had happened to her in these short summer months. They were met at Euston by his motor-car. “_Home_,” said Sir Isaac, with a little gleam of excitement, when the more immediate luggage was aboard. As they hummed through the West-End afternoon Ellen became aware that he was whistling through his teeth. It was his invariable indication of mental activity, and her attention came drifting back from her idle contemplation of the shoppers and strollers of Piccadilly to link this already alarming symptom with the perplexing fact that they were manifestly travelling west. “But this,” she said presently, “is Knightsbridge.” “Goes to Kensington,” he replied with attempted indifference. “But your mother doesn’t live this way.” “_We_ do,” said Sir Isaac, shining at every point of his face. “But,” she halted. “Isaac!—where are we going?” “Home,” he said. “You’ve not taken a house?” “Bought it.” “But,—it won’t be ready!” “I’ve seen to that.” “Servants!” she cried in dismay. “That’s all right.” His face broke into an excited smile. His little eyes danced and shone. “Everything,” he said. “But the servants!” she said. “You’ll see,” he said. “There’s a butler—and everything.” “A butler!” He could now no longer restrain himself. “I was weeks,” he said, “getting it ready. Weeks and weeks.... It’s a house.... I’d had my eye on it before ever I met you. It’s a real _good_ house, Elly....”