Mr. Hawtry’s den was a small front room, with a view of the privet hedge and the walnut tree, and was plainly furnished with a round table and well-worn leather chairs, the walls lined with mahogany bookshelves, his gun and a pair of handsomely-mounted pistols occupying the place of honour over the mantelpiece. Joyce called it an ugly room, but I thought it looked comfortable and home-like, with its pleasant litter of magazines and papers, and Gay said at once—
“I do like this old den of yours, Mr. Hawtry; it is such a snug room, especially in winter, when father and I have come in after a long, cold ride.”
“You do not come as often now, Miss Gay,” he said, looking at her a little keenly.
She coloured, as though the remark embarrassed her, and seemed bent on excusing herself.
“I am such a busy person, you see, and now I spend all my leisure time with the children. Am I not a devoted aunt, Merle?”
“You are very good to give us so much of your company,” I returned, for I saw she wanted me to speak; but just then a flash of lightning frightened Joyce away from the window, and she came to me for protection. Reggie, too, began to cry, and I had some trouble in pacifying him.
Gay good-naturedly came to my assistance.
“Supposing we take the children into the other room and show them the shells; it would distract their attention from the storm. We will leave you to read your paper in peace, Mr. Hawtry.” But he insisted on going with us. The cabinet had a curious lock, he assured us, and no one could open it but himself.
The children were delighted with the shells, and a little green Indian idol perfectly fascinated Reggie. He kissed the grinning countenance with intense affection, and murmured, “Pretty, pretty.” My attention was attracted to a miniature in a velvet frame. It was a portrait of a round-faced, happy-looking girl, with brown eyes, rather like Mr. Hawtry’s.
“That was my sister Agnes,” he said, with a sigh, and for a moment his face clouded over. “She died two years ago, after years of intense suffering. That miniature was painted when she was eighteen. She was a bright, healthy creature then. Look, that was her couch, where she spent her days. There is a mystery in some lives, Miss Fenton. I never understood why she was permitted to suffer all these years.”