Frank and Maude got out and entered the small railed garden, in the centre of which the pedestal rose. It was very simple and plain—an old man in a dressing-gown, with homely wornout boots, a book upon his knee, his eyes and thoughts far away. No more simple statue in all London, but human to a surprising degree. They stood for five minutes and stared at it.
‘Well,’ said Frank at last, ‘small as it is, I think it is worthy of the man.’
‘It is so natural.’
‘You can see him think. By Jove, it is splendid!’ Frank had enough of the true artist to be able to feel that rush of enthusiasm which adequate work should cause. That old man, with his head shamefully defiled by birds, was a positive joy to him. Among the soulless, pompous, unspeakable London statues, here at last there was one over which it is pleasant to linger.
‘What other one is there?’
‘Gordon in Trafalgar Square.’
‘Well, Gordon, perhaps. But our Nelsons and Napiers and Havelocks—to think that we could do no better than that for them! Now, dear, we have seen the man—let us look at the house!’
It had evidently been an old-fashioned building when first they came to it. 1708 was the date at the corner of the street. Six or seven drab-coloured, flat-chested, dim-windowed houses stood in a line—theirs wedged in the middle of them. A poor medallion with a profile head of him had been clumsily let into the wall. Several worn steps led to the thin high door with an old-fashioned fanlight above it. Frank rang the bell, and a buxom cheerful matron came at the call.
‘Names in this book, sir—and address, if you please,’ said the cheery matron. ‘One shilling each—thank you, sir. First door to the left, sir! This was the dining-room, sir—’
But Frank had come to a dead stop in the dim, dull, wood-panelled hall. In front of them rose the stairs with old-fashioned banisters, cracked, warped, and dusty.