It is a nice room, which he uses much as his wife uses her boudoir. The
library next door is rather a show place, but the study has only Lord
Mountstuart's favourite books in it. He writes there (he has written a
novel or two, and thinks himself literary), and some pictures he has
painted in different parts of the world hang on the walls: for he also
fancies himself artistic.
In one corner is a particularly comfortable, cushiony lounge where, I
suppose, the distinguished author lies and thinks out his subjects, or
dreams them out. And it was to this that Di led me.
She settled me among some fat pillows of old purple and gold brocade,
and asked if she should ring and get a little brandy.
"No," I said, "I shall feel better in a few minutes. It's so nice and
cool here."
"You look better already!" exclaimed Di. "Soon, when you've lain and
rested awhile, you'll be a different girl."
"Ah, how I wish I _could_ be a different girl!" I sighed. "A strong,
well girl, and tall and beautiful, and admired by everyone,--like
you--or Maxine de Renzie."
"What makes you think of her?" asked Di, quickly.
"Ivor was just talking to me of her.
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