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near fifty years old.’
    ‘Oh!’ My exclamation was not very discreet, but the information surprised me. As the husband of her daughter, I had naturally imagined a much younger man. Why, Mrs Bryce-Fortescue herself did not look so much.
    ‘Yes,’ she replied calmly. ‘You seem surprised. I suppose you expected my daughter to be married to a man closer to her own age.’
    ‘Yes, but it was a foolish prejudice,’ I answered humbly, disliking to have my thoughts read, even if they were very silly and obvious thoughts. ‘Can you tell me how Mr Granger became acquainted with your daughter?’
    There was a faint pause. She seemed to be recollecting, or collecting, her thoughts.
    ‘He met her through me,’ she said. ‘I met Mr Granger at the home of some mutual friends, some seven or eight years ago. I was intrigued by him, for he was very unlike the men I was used to meeting. He had a strong and dominating personality, the kind of personality which leads a man to success no matter what his background. He had done far more, with far less advantages, than any other man of my acquaintance, and I felt a certain … admiration for him. He became a frequent caller at our house; Sylvia was then a girl of fifteen or sixteen. She was not in the least bit interested in him, but she was a very lovely girl, and I see now that he may have been … fond of her from the beginning, although he said nothing about it for many years. Indeed, he never said or hinted a word of any such thing until two years ago – all at once, and most unexpectedly.’ She flushed.
    ‘What happened then?’
    ‘Then he asked to marry her,’ she responded drily.
    ‘Was she pleased? How did she feel about it?’
    ‘I do not wish to speak for my daughter,’ she replied with a shade of coolness. ‘Naturally, she was pleased, as sheaccepted the proposal. The age difference certainly did not constitute an insurmountable obstacle. But I cannot give you any details about her feelings or about the marriage. Neither my daughter nor I are given to the expression of transports of feeling. You must see if you can learn directly from her what you wish to know.’
    There was something curious in her attitude; something strange, contradictory. She seemed to wish to enlighten me, and yet something blocked the flow of information, as though there were something about her daughter’s marriage, or about private affairs in general, that she seemed to feel and yet to be unable to pronounce, maybe even to herself. Perhaps she was simply obeying the impulse of discretion and the need to present a certain face to the world.
    At any rate, one thing appears clear: Mrs Bryce-Fortescue is not going to drown me in a spate of worldly chatter. She will put her house at my disposal, and answer factual questions to the best of her ability, but I do not think she is sincerely capable of doing more. Her character forbids it.
    At length, and after a good deal of mutual silence, the carriage drew up in front of Mrs Bryce-Fortescue’s imposing home. The house is indescribably full of charm; summer roses fall in clusters over the low, projecting southern wing, and the warm stone of an unusual rosy hue, bringing to mind the ‘Maidstone’ of the house’s name, peeps through them in the sunshine. Light glints on the casements and large trees cast shade over a wild little garden surrounded by a low, moss-covered wall, with a gate giving onto the vast fields and lanes beyond. I stopped, delighted, and stared about me.
    ‘Here we are: welcome to Maidstone Hall. I am afraid that it is in rather a sorry state,’ said Mrs Bryce-Fortescue, leading me up the somewhat overgrown garden path. ‘I have not been able to keep it up as it deserves, since my husband died.’
    ‘But it’s lovely!’ I exclaimed. ‘It’s one of the loveliest houses I’ve ever seen!’ The sun glanced over its irregular stone surface, burnished by time and enlivened by wild flowers and grasses spilling out of the