Then the procession was formed:  the double doors were set back, the electric light switched on; Lord Talgarth passed through towards the great four-posted bed that stood out into the bedroom, and was in bed, with scarcely a groan, almost before the swift Mr. Clarkson could be at his side to help him in.  He lay there, his ruddy face wonderfully handsome against the contrast of his gray hair and the white pillow, while Mr. Clarkson concluded the other and final ceremonies.  A small table had to be wheeled to a certain position beside the bed, and the handle of the electric cord laid upon it in a particular place, between the book and the tray on which stood some other very special draught to be drunk in case of thirst.

“Call me a quarter of an hour earlier than usual,” observed the face on the pillow.  “I’ll take a little stroll before breakfast.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“What did I tell you to remind me to do after breakfast?”

“Send for Mr. Manners, my lord.”

“That’s right.  Good-night, Clarkson.”

“Good-night, my lord.”

* * * * *

There was the usual discreet glance round the room to see that all was in order; then the door into the dressing-room closed imperceptibly behind Mr. Clarkson’s bent back.

CHAPTER III

(I)

Winter at Merefield Rectory is almost as delightful as summer, although in an entirely different way.  The fact is that the Rectory has managed the perfect English compromise.  In summer, with the windows and doors wide open, with the heavy radiant creepers, with the lawns lying about the house, with the warm air flowing over the smooth, polished floors and lifting the thin mats, with the endless whistle of bird song—­then the place seems like a summer-house.  And in winter, with the heavy carpets down, and the thick curtains, the very polished floors, so cool in summer, seem expressly designed to glimmer warmly with candle and fire-light; and the books seem to lean forward protectively and reassert themselves, and the low beamed ceilings to shelter and safeguard the interior comfort.  The center of gravity is changed almost imperceptibly.  In summer the place is a garden with a house in the middle; in winter a house surrounded by shrubberies.

The study in one way and the morning-room in another are the respective pivots of the house.  The study is a little paneled room on the ground-floor, looking out upon the last of the line of old yews and the beginning of the lawn; the morning-room (once known as the school-room) is the only other paneled room in the house, on the first floor, looking out upon the front.  And round these two rooms the two sections of the house-life tranquilly revolve.  Here in one the Rector controls the affairs of the parish, writes his sermons, receives his men friends (not very many), and reads his books.  There in the other Jenny orders the domestic life of the house, interviews the cook, and occupies herself with her own affairs.  They are two rival, but perfectly friendly, camps.