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 now as if it were drawing itself together into a nervous rigour, as a man draws himself together in suffering irritation at the entrance of a fussy wife.

"Were these all the letters, Lydia? I hope none were forwarded to Wickly? Porloch, do be careful of the paint! The fly was very stuffy, Lydia. I wish you'd ordered one of Bicklesfield's. His are always clean."

Mrs. Tottenham had darted out of the drawing-room, swept up her letters from the table, and stood hesitating at the bottom of the stairs.

"You might order tea immediately. Yes, the drawing-room for to-day." A red shimmer of firelight invited them through the open door. "Herbert, Her-bert!"

Mr. Tottenham was clattering in the smoking-room. His face peered crossly at them round the door.

"I wondered if you had gone upstairs. Porloch has been very careless of the paint. You might have watched him, Lydia!" She vanished slowly into the gloom above.

Lydia went into the drawing-room and stood warming her hands before the fire. A