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Soon after their arrival she had been told to take down the heavy window curtains in the two bedrooms, and day by day the rooms had seemed to grow more bare. Nothing was left lying about. "Mr. Borlsover doesn't like to have any place where dirt can collect," Saunders had said as an excuse. "He likes to see into all the corners of the room."
The few busts that an eighteenth-century Borlsover had brought back from the grand tour, might have been in keeping in the old library. Here they seemed out of place. They made the room feel cold, in spite of the heavy red damask curtains and great gilt cornices. With a crash two heavy books fell from the gallery to the floor; then, as Borlsover looked, another and yet another.
"Never you mind," wrote the hand of Adrian. "Is it my uncle who is writing?" "Oh, my prophetic soul, mine uncle." "Is it anyone I know?" "Silly Eustace, you'll see me very soon." "When shall I see you?" "When poor old Adrian's dead." "Where shall I see you?" "Where shall you not?" Instead of speaking his next question, Borlsover wrote it. "What is the time?"
Mrs. Merrit departed at the end of the month. Her successor certainly was more successful in the management of the servants. Early in her rule she declared that she would stand no nonsense, and gossip soon withered and died. Eustace Borlsover went back to his old way of life. Old habits crept over and covered his new experience.
Adrian Borlsover, as my father had said, was a wonderful man. He came of an eccentric family. Borlsovers' sons, for some reason, always seemed to marry very ordinary women, which perhaps accounted for the fact that no Borlsover had been a genius, and only one Borlsover had been mad.
"I am sorry I didn't bring it before," she said, "but it was left in the letter-box." "Open it, Saunders, and see if it wants answering." It was very brief. There was neither address nor signature. "Will eleven o'clock to-night be suitable for our last appointment?" "Who is it from?" asked Borlsover. "It was meant for me," said Saunders. "There's no answer, Mrs.
"Crowd, a noun of multitude; a collection of individuals Adrian Borlsover, Eustace Borlsover." "It seems to me," said his uncle, closing the book, "that you had much better make the most of the afternoon sunshine and take your walk now." "I think perhaps I will," Eustace answered as he picked up the volume.
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