For the rest, all the minor accessories of this spacious and tranquil place were as plentiful and as well chosen as the heart could desire.

And solid literature and light literature, and great writers and small, were all bounteously illuminated alike by a fine broad flow of the light of heaven, pouring into the room through windows that opened to the floor.
It was the fourth day from the day of Lady Lundie's garden-party, and it wanted an hour or more of the time at which the luncheon-bell usually rang.
The guests at Windygates were most of them in the garden, enjoying the morning sunshine, after a prevalent mist and rain for some days past.
Two gentlemen (exceptions to the general rule) were alone in the library.

They were the two last gentlemen in the would who could possibly be supposed to have any legitimate motive for meeting each other in a place of literary seclusion.

One was Arnold Brinkworth, and the other was Geoffrey Delamayn.
They had arrived together at Windygates that morning.

Geoffrey had traveled from London with his brother by the train of the previous night.