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 house repudiated him. That Cicely and the house had made a pact against him, shutting him out.

He was no bourgeois and no parvenu. He, Herbert Pilkington, was good enough for any house bought with his own well-earned money. He pushed savagely against the panels of the drawing-room door.

This was the largest room in the house. A pale light fell across the floor from the scoops of two great bow-windows, and there was a glimmer in the mirrors—fixtures—panelling the walls.

Herbert put down his candles and stood back in admiration.

"Next year," he said, "we will buy a grand piano; it would look well there, slanting out from that corner."

"The shutters—we ought to shut the shutters." Fussily he wrestled with the catches. For all his middle-aged precision he was like a child delirious over some new toy.

"It needs children; it's a room for children," said Cicely, when the clatter had subsided.