"I used to be as natty and bright as you, Macrae," he said, "but age, sir, age—the years tell on us."
Dr. Macrae met him at the railway station with the Victoria, and he admired the turnout very much. "That is a fine machine," he remarked; "it must have cost you a pretty penny."
"It is not mine," answered Dr. Macrae. "It belongs to Lady Cramer. I have, by her kindness, the use of it this summer."
"What an unusual kindness!"
"Also of her dower house, with all its beautiful furnishings. Very little you will see in it belongs to me."
"I have never fallen on such luck. My church is large, but poor—poor. There are a few wealthy families—but—but they do not lift themselves above the ordinaries of collection—the plate and the printed lists."
"Yes."
"And, even so, I generally think scorn of their donations. I suppose you are on a very easy footing with Lady Cramer—friendly, I mean."
"Yes, we are good friends."
He was in a fit of admiration with everything he saw, the antique homeliness of the parlors, the lavender on the window sills, the Worcester china on the table. He looked critically at the latter, and said with a knowing air, "It belongs to the best period, having the square mark on it." The light shone on olives and grapes, on cut glass and silver, and specially on a claret jug of Worcester, with its exotic birds, its lasting gold, and its scale-blue ground like sapphire. He had the artistic temperament, and these beautiful things appealed to him in a way that astonished Dr. Macrae, whose temperament was of spiritual mold, and had not been destitute of even ascetic tendencies in his youth.