The note of sympathy in her voice gave him a sudden suspicion that she imagined his departure due to poverty. Now to be poor as an author is to be unpopular, and he valued his popularity—with the better sort of people. He hastened to explain. “I have to go, because here, you see, here, neither for me nor my little son, is it Life. It’s a place of memories, a place of accomplished beauty. My son already breaks away,—a preparatory school at Margate. Healthier, better, for us to break altogether I feel, wrench though it may. It’s full for us at least—a new tenant would be different of course—but for _us_ it’s full of associations we can’t alter, can’t for the life of us change. Nothing you see goes on. And life you know _is_ change—change and going on.” He paused impressively on his generalization. “But you will want——You will want to hand it over to—to sympathetic people of course. People,” she faltered, “who will understand.” Mr. Brumley took an immense stride—conversationally. “I am certain there is no one I would more readily see in that house than yourself,” he said. “But——” she protested. “And besides, you don’t know me!” “One knows some things at once, and I am as sure you would—understand—as if I had known you twenty years. It may seem absurd to you, but when I looked up just now and saw you for the first time, I thought—this, this is the tenant. This is her house.... Not a doubt. That is why I did not go for my walk—came round with you.” “You really think you would like us to have that house?” she said. “_Still?_” “No one better,” said Mr. Brumley. “After the board?” “After a hundred boards, I let the house to you....” “My husband of course will be the tenant,” reflected Lady Harman. She seemed to brighten again by an effort: “I have always wanted something like this, that wasn’t gorgeous, that wasn’t mean. I can’t _make_ things. It isn’t every one—can _make_ a place....” §2