The sun shone in pleasantly through a large south window and the glare, which is the great fault of shining summer suns, was reduced by the leaves of a virginia creeper which clustered on the wall round the casement. Outside, a breeze made a gentle rustling through the branches of a glowing copper beech. The long herbaceous border was ablaze with colour, the brilliant blue of anchusas, the mauves and pinks of tall foxgloves, the white of a ribbon of low pinks, the subdued blue of violas, and the rich reds of many sweet-williams. Sir Evelyn, looking out, enjoyed a sense of mild relief—mild because he was too tired to feel anything strongly, even the delight of sunshine and the colours of the flowers.
Inside, the room was cool and staid. Gentle shadows, like the caresses of middle-aged lovers, hung over the bookshelves and the pictures on the wall. There stood, in orderly rows, all Sir Evelyn's favourite books; old memoirs bound in faded calf, tall folios rich in illustrations, rebound in purple leather and adorned with gilt impressions of the Dent coat of arms, portfolios of ancient charts, squat vellum-coloured accounts of early voyages. The pictures were those which Sir Evelyn chiefly delighted in, sea pieces, where old-fashioned ships lay in harbour with high-peaked bowsprits, tall poops and hanging sails; or plunged through crested seas while windy clouds raced across the sky.
Sir Evelyn, stretched in a deep chair, looked round at the books and pictures with mild pleasure. His was the delightful ease which follows a time of weariness. And that weariness in his case had been the result of hard work well done, toil brought to a successful end. Ease without the congratulations of a satisfied conscience loses half its delight. Sir Evelyn's conscience was in alliance with his surroundings to give him the full joy of peace. His work was done, well done, praised by all men and need never be done again. Is any state achieved by man on earth more delightful than that?
On the table beside his chair stood piles of press cuttings, four large piles. They had been taken from their green wrappers and neatly arranged by a careful servant. Sir Evelyn had not, while his guests remained with him, had time to read the accounts of the pageant; but when the judge, latest lingering of his guests, had gone, he looked forward to the pleasure of studying all the papers had to say about him. Never, even when he was Cabinet Minister, had his piles of cuttings been quite so high. But Sir Evelyn waited, like an epicure who hesitates before putting the delicious morsel into his mouth, hoping to double the pleasure by adding expectation to realisation.
While he lingered, satisfied with stillness and silence, tenderly savouring the pleasure to come, his chance of ever enjoying it was snapped from him. A servant entered the room.
"A gentleman has called who wishes to see you, sir."
"I won't see anyone to-day," said Sir Evelyn.
He had seen and talked to gentlemen of every sort and description every day and at all hours for a week. He had been photographed, interviewed, invited and pressed to do fifty troublesome things. He was determined to have no more gentlemen let loose at him.
"He's a Mr. East, sir," said the servant, "and he says his business is most important."
"Mr. East!"