"Humph! rather spoilt by the damp," he said to himself; as he ran his lithe fingers over the keys, "or perhaps the amiable Mrs. Javelrack has been trying to cultivate music." The ogress brought in the dinner and waited on Eustace in a ponderous manner, giving him all the news of the neighbourhood, which was remarkably scant, and talked all through the meal in a subdued roar. When Eustace had finished, she removed the dishes, brought in some coffee, and, after making up the fire, retired to the kitchen and the company of Mr. Javelrack. Gartney heard them chatting even through the thick walls, for the dampness of the marshes had made them both somewhat deaf, and consequently they shouted so loudly at one another, that it was difficult at times to tell whether it was the ocean roaring or the ogres conversing. It was a very comfortable room, having been furnished by Eustace according to his own ideas, and the walls, instead of being papered, were hung with dull red cloth after the fashion of tapestry, which waved at intervals as the searching winds crept in shrilly through crack and cranny. A wide fireplace in which blazed a large coal fire between the grotesque brass dogs, several comfortable arm-chairs, and on one side, a small book-case containing a selection of Gartney's favourite authors. At the distant end of the room a grand piano, with the music piled neatly beside it, a cumbersome, old-fashioned sofa, and a deep, square window with diamond panes, and a quaint oaken seat set in its depths. Eustace drew an arm-chair close to the fire and near to the small table upon which Mrs. Javelrack had placed his coffee, produced his pipe, and was soon puffing away in a most comfortable manner. He picked up a slim volume of poems entitled "Rose dreamings," and turned over the pages listlessly as he sipped his coffee, feeling a drowsy sensation steal over him. A verse in the poem called "Temptation," however, roused him from this lethargic state, and throwing down the book, he paced restlessly up and down the room repeating the four lines quietly to himself: "This love so hard the winning. For ever will endure, If all the world be sinning, Why should we two be pure?" "I'm afraid she won't take the same view as that," he muttered to himself discontentedly, thinking of Lady Errington. "And yet, if she doesn't love her husband, she may have a kindly feeling for me. As to the child, surely no woman--not even this Madonna--can devote herself exclusively to it. Still, the child is the obstacle between herself and her husband, so perhaps it will be the obstacle between herself and me. Oh! I could love her! I could love her if she would only let me! She will let me! I'm certain of it! Guy has no brains, and she is starving for the want of intellectual food. The child is the excuse, but that is the real reason of the coldness between them."