Was there
any other point?"
"The crystal box? Why was it?"
"To preserve my guests from the effects of the changes of temperature.
It would be a poor kindness to bring them back to my smoking-room
drenched through, and with the seeds of a violent cold. The crystal has
to be kept warm, too, otherwise vapour would deposit, and you would have
your view spoiled. But must you really go? Then here we are back in
the smoking-room. I hope that it will not be your last visit by many a
one. And if I may come down to Elmdene I should be very glad to do so.
This is the way through the museum."
As Robert McIntyre emerged from the balmy aromatic atmosphere of the
great house, into the harsh, raw, biting air of an English winter
evening, he felt as though he had been away for a long visit in some
foreign country. Time is measured by impressions, and so vivid and
novel had been his feelings, that weeks and weeks might have elapsed
since his chat with the smoke-grimed stranger in the road. He walked
along with his head in a whirl, his whole mind possessed and intoxicated
by the one idea of the boundless wealth and the immense power of this
extraordinary stranger. Small and sordid and mean seemed his own
Elmdene as he approached it, and he passed over its threshold full of
restless discontent against himself and his surroundings.
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