His eyes travelled round the small book-lined room, with its shelves of poetry, history, and theology; its parish litter; its settle by the fire, on which lay a doll and a child's picture-book; back to the figure of the new vicar, who stood, pipe in hand, before the hearth, clad in a shabby serge suit, his collar alone betraying him. French's white hair showed even whiter than of old above the delicately blanched face; from his natural slenderness and smallness the East End and its life had by now stripped every superfluous ounce; yet, ethereal as his aspect was, not one element of the Meredithian trilogy—"flesh," "blood," or "spirit"—was lacking in it.
"Yes, we've settled in," he said quietly, as Penrose took stock.
"And you like it?"
"We do."
The phrase was brief; nor did it seem to be going to lead to anything more expansive. Penrose smiled.
"Well, now"—he bent forward, with a professional change of tone—"before he arrives, where precisely is this unhappy business? I gather, by the way, that Barnes has got practically all his legal advice from the other side, though the solicitors here have been coöperating?"
French nodded. "I am still rather vague myself. Roger only arrived from New York the day before yesterday. His uncle, General Hobson, died a few weeks ago, and Roger came rushing home, as I understand, to see if he could make any ready money out of his inheritance. Money, in fact, seems to be his chief thought."
"Money? What for? Mrs. Barnes's suit was surely settled long ago?"
"Oh, yes—months ago. She got her decree and the custody of the child in July."
"Remind me of the details. Barnes refused to plead?"