"Is he in?"
Suspicion shone in the woman's eyes. "Was it aboot a bill?" she asked.
"A bill, my good woman! No, no, nothing of the kind. Dr. Dimsdale is my name. I am the lad's father—just come up from London to see him. I hope he has not been overworking himself?"
A ghost of a smile played about the woman's face. "I think not, sir," she answered.
"I almost wish I had come round in the afternoon," said the visitor, standing with his thick legs astride upon the door-mat. "It seems a pity to break his chain of thought. The morning is his time for study."
"Houts! I wouldna' fash aboot that."
"Well! well! The third floor, you say. He did not expect me so early, I shall surprise the dear boy at his work."
The landlady stood listening expectantly in the passage. The sturdy little man plodded heavily up the first flight of stairs. He paused on the landing.
"Dear me!" he murmured. "Some one is beating carpets. How can they expect poor Tom to read?"
At the second landing the noise was much louder. "It must be a dancing school," conjectured the doctor.