The blue room, furnished by the late duchess, and undisturbed by her loyal son, was of that sickly azure¹ hue² once affected³ by pale blondes. The walls were further ornamented⁴ by bits of sentimental⁵ tapestry⁶, the chair backs with anti-macassars, stitched and woven by her Grace’s own white hands. There was an entire sofa,—but why harrow the soul of the reader, even as Nigel’s soul should have been harrowed as he sat with closed eyes awaiting Julia? As a matter of fact, he forgot the hideous⁷ room at once, and, heroically dismissing Julia from his mind that he might be quite composed when she entered, dwelt with satisfaction upon his interview with his father a few hours earlier. That eminently⁸ practical peer had cast him off when he fled from England, leaving a curt⁹ note to announce his intention to devote himself to the art of fiction. He might have starved after the fashion of more orthodox bidders¹⁰ for immortality¹¹, had it not been for a small personal annuity¹² which enabled him to live comfortably in Switzerland while engrossed¹³ in his book. It was during this period, living in a mountain inn, without luxuries,

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