“Then you don’t like Tetherstones?” Frances said.
She saw again an extraordinary gleam in his eyes as he made reply. “You might ask a convict how he likes Princetown,” he said. “My place is at Oxford, but I have been torn from it and made to endure life in the desert all these years.”
“But a very beautiful desert,” suggested Frances.
He made a wide gesture of repudiation. “What is that to an exile? When you have been made to eat stones for bread, you will not notice if they are beautiful to look at.”
“I can understand that,” she said. “Yet a sense of beauty is sometimes a help. At least I found it so when I was at Burminster.”
“Ah! Burminster!” He repeated the name thoughtfully. “Did you ever meet anyone there of the name of Rotherby?”
“Why, yes.” She started a little, remembering Arthur’s attitude. “I was with Dr. Rotherby who is the Bishop of Burminster.”
“Yes—yes.” He nodded gravely. “We were at Oxford together. He left and I remained. So he is at Burminster! You were not happy with him?”
Frances hesitated. “Not very,” she admitted.
He nodded again. “A hard man—a hard man! And did you ever meet his nephew—Montague?”
She felt the colour leap to her face. “Yes, I have met him,” she said.
“Ah! He is a friend of yours,” said the old man, with quiet conviction. “A close friend?”
She did not know how to answer him. No words would come. But in that moment to her intense relief she heard a step outside. The door opened, and Mrs. Dermot entered.
“Arnold,” she said, “I am sorry to disturb you, but Dr. Square is here. He will be down immediately to see you. May he come in?”
The old man turned towards her with a fond smile. “My dear,” he said, “any pretext is welcome that brings you to my side.”
Frances got up, thankful for the interruption. “I will go to the kitchen if I may,” she said. “Maggie is there.”
“We need not drive you away,” protested Mr. Dermot.
But she was already at the door. “Perhaps—later,” she said, and was gone before he could say any more. The closing of the door behind her gave her a sense of escape from something terrible which she told herself was utterly unreasonable.
The kitchen-door was half-open. She pushed it open and entered. Then sharply she drew back. It was raining and the place was in semi-darkness. Only a red glow from the great open fireplace lighted it, throwing into strong relief the old black rafters. And in this glow, seated at the table facing her, but with his head upon his hands, was a man.
