Within the next hour he came to the conclusion that, in spite of his extended knowledge of American interiors, he had never before been in a really well-appointed house--a house, that is, where one wise and affectionate person directed every detail. Mrs. Royce, he found, knew every aspect of her home. She not only knew her flowers almost as individuals, but she knew the vase and the place where each appeared to the best advantage. She knew better than her husband which chair he liked, where he kept his cigars, and which little table would be best at his elbow. Nor was her consideration confined to her own family. She had thought of a tired doctor’s special needs. She had given him “a little room, where he could be quiet and get a glimpse of the river.” Shut in this room, not so very little after all, he walked to the writing-table to make a memorandum. It had more than once happened to him to find, in a house accounted luxurious, only a dry, encrusted inkstand in the spare room. Not so here. Never was ink so fluidly, greenly new; never was blotting-paper so eagerly absorbent. He noticed, besides three sizes of paper and envelopes, that there were cable blanks, telegraph blanks, and postal cards, as well as stamps of all varieties. It was not Despard’s habit to notice life quite as much in detail as this, but now it amused him to pursue the subject. Luxury he knew; but this effective consideration he rated as something higher. II He had arrived on a Friday, and on Sunday at five--things were apt to happen by a schedule in the Royce household--he was to give his report on Celia. He entered the library--the spot designated by Mrs. Royce--by one door as Churchley, the butler, came in at the other to serve tea. The dark, shining little table was brought out, noiselessly opened, covered with a cloth--the wrong cloth, Mrs. Royce indicated. Churchley whisked away and returned incredibly quickly with the right one. The tray, weighted with silver and blossoming with the saffron flame of the tea-kettle, was next put before her, and then another little structure of shelves was set at her right hand. Her eye fell on this. “I said _brown_-bread toast, Churchley.” The man murmured and again whisked away. All this time Despard had not sat down, although between orders Mrs. Royce had more than once urged him to do so. He stood, having shut the door behind him, leaning the point of his shoulder against the wall. Utterly undisturbed by his calm eyes fixed upon her, Mrs. Royce said: “Poor Churchley, he has been with us for six years, but I’m afraid I can’t keep him. He forgets everything.” “He’s on the edge of a nervous breakdown,” answered Despard coolly, and he added: “The housemaid is a pronounced neurasthenic. As for your daughter----”