Man's deep chairs of comfort, thick rugs for dogs to doze on and bow-wow spectrally in pursuit of dream-rats; and here among them Darby dreamt awake, as his terriers and big Scotch deerhound basked. Dreamt of what he had been, and of some wondrous bone-setters who could straighten twisted muscles, patch up broken bones, and send one Darby Dillon out again walking evenly, no longer a shuffling cripple, but a man who would have the right to go to the girl he cared for and offer himself to her.
Here, alone, he saw pictures in the fire and felt the ache and throb of hopelessness.
Psyche flitted round, looking at the pictured likenesses of men who had once sat in the room—from silken-clad cavaliers to the men painted in the present-day tweeds.
"This boy"—Psyche swung round—"your brother?"
It was Darby, painted on the steps, a great hound by his side.
"Oh, no—myself!" he said.
"Oh, then it was an accident; you weren't born——"
Psyche stopped and became a lively poppy colour.
"I thought Gheena would have told you. It was at polo, a bad smash-up, two ponies all rolling together with Mr. Dillon as a pivot. Don't look distressed; that hurts. Come and see the pack."
They went out a back way, along cavernous passages, through which in bygone days huge dishes of roasts and boiled had had to be galloped up to the big dining-room. Darby showed a kitchen in which a range lurked coyly in the vastness, and through which all the draughts of the world seemed to rush.