A Winnowing

Beneath, in a little paved space, a fountain splashed gently in its basin.

The room itself calls for no particular remark. It was like a hundred thousand others, scattered in country-houses wherever the well-to-do public sets itself down to be entirely comfortable. A dressing-table between the windows shone with silver. There was a deep pile carpet on the floor; tall chintz curtains hung upon the window-poles; there was a high, white marble fireplace; there was plenty of opulent-looking mahogany furniture; a chintz covered couch stood at the end of the bed; and within the chintz curtains of the bed itself lay the young man who, it seemed, had had a very remarkable syncope from which he had recovered. And there sat by him his wife, a small, pretty, rather pale girl of about twenty-two years old. They had been married three years--ever since, in fact, Jack's Americanised uncle had suddenly died and left him wealthy.

About Jack Weston himself there is not a great deal to say. The most remarkable t