“Psalm singing?” he asked.
“No. I have been greatly struck by—”
“The dedications,” he interjected, laughing.
“No—the gifts.”
“Oh. It is only natural. The Bible at one time was so interesting, and at the same time so expensive, that I made friends with the writers and obtained copies gratis. You must admit that the binding and illuminations alone are in themselves treasures of art.”
“Indeed,” I observed drily, “everything about here seems so precious and expensive that a little poverty and plainness would be most acceptable.”
He sat down on the sofa I had left.
“You are in a bad temper,” he remarked simply. “But if you wish to see what you term poverty you shall see it soon enough. But not now, for I will have—let me see (and here he glanced at a curious kind of clock above the fireplace), I suppose you would call it ‘supper.’”
He led the way to the door, but there he stayed.
“We have no guests to-night,” he said, smiling, “so we dine alone. But may I beg of you to assume a more cheerful countenance? My slaves are not accustomed to sad looks, except from prisoners, and you are a guest. Also, I must give you a little advice which is sometimes given in the world we’ve left to poor relations. Look as if you were accustomed to everything, and don’t pay too much deference—‘attention’ rather I should say—to the servants.”