The long wall opposite the fireplace had nothing at all on its sand-coloured surface from the door to the window except a tall narrow looking-glass in a queerly-carved black frame, and the picture. But how that one picture glowed. What glorious weather they were having in it! It wasn't anywhere in England, she was sure. It was a brilliant, sunlit place, with a lot of almond trees in full blossom,--an orchard of them, apparently, standing in grass that was full of little flowers, very gay little flowers, of kinds she didn't know. And through the open door in the wall there was an amazing stretch of hot, vivid country. It stretched on and on till it melted into an ever so far away lovely blue. There was an effect of immense spaciousness, of huge freedom. One could feel oneself running out into it with one's face to the sun, flinging up one's arms in an ecstasy of release, of escape.... 'It's somewhere abroad,' she said, after a silence. 'I daresay,' said Wemyss. 'Used you to travel much?' she asked, still examining the picture, fascinated. 'She refused to.' 'She refused to?' echoed Lucy, turning round. She looked at him wonderingly. That seemed not only unkind of Vera, but extraordinarily--yes, energetic. The exertion required for refusing Everard something he wanted was surely enormous, was surely greater than any but the most robust-minded wife could embark upon. She had had one small experience of what disappointing him meant in that question of Christmas, and she hadn't been living with him then, and she had had all the nights to recover in; yet the effect of that one experience had been to make her give in at once when next he wanted something, and it was because of last Christmas that she was standing married in that room instead of being still, as both she and her Aunt Dot had intended, six months off it. 'Why did she refuse?' she asked, wondering. Wemyss didn't answer for a moment. Then he said, 'I was going to say you had better ask her, but you can't very well do that, can you.' Lucy stood looking at him. 'Yes,' she said, 'she does seem extraordinarily near, doesn't she. This room is full----' 'Now Lucy I'll have none of that. Come here.' He held out his hand. She crossed over obediently and took it. He pulled her close and ruffled her hair. He was in high spirits again. His encounters with the servants had exhilarated him. 'Who's my duddely-umpty little girl?' he asked. 'Tell me who's my duddely-umpty little girl. Quick. Tell me----' And he caught her round the waist and jumped her up and down. Chesterton, bringing in the tea, arrived in the middle of a jump. XXIV There appeared to be no tea-table. Chesterton, her arms stretched taut holding the heavy tray, looked round. Evidently tea up there wasn't usual. 'Put it in the window,' said Wemyss, jerking his head towards the writing-table. 'Oh----' began Lucy quickly; and stopped. 'What's the matter?' asked Wemyss. 'Won't it--be draughty?'