The Rectory, standing alone, was some little way from the village. It was thatched, and there was much trellis-work over its face, dry and warped with many days' suns. When they reached it Derwent was in the middle of some exciting reminiscence.
"Come in," cried De Courcy, "come in. There's whisky and seltzer, or soda, if you prefer it. You can have a pipe and finish your yarn. It is quite early."
"Not for Grorepound," remonstrated Derwent. The lights in the village were going out one after another like the sparks of an exploded firework.
"But for us? I can't sleep without a pipe, and I expect you are the same. Let us have our pipes in a sociable way instead of in silent communion. Come."
Derwent went in with De Courcy, passing through the hall into the library. The library window looked on to the lawn by the side of the trellised porch.
As they entered the wind rattled the windows gustily.
"You will not find the wind so strong at the back," said Derwent.
"But I sleep in the front," explained De Courcy. "My room is the one over this."
Derwent looked at the porch and smiled.
"Then," he said, "you will probably get little sleep to-night."