In the centre of the small quadrangle grew a quincunx of heavy-foliaged elms, encircled by a spiky iron fence of defiant appearance, and under one of the trees a weather-stained statue of some dead and gone warrior, with a suitable inscription in choice Latin, which no one could read. Over all this prim locality an air of Sabbath quiet.
The doors of the houses always seemed to be closed. Rarely were any signs of life seen behind the half screens of the windows, the well-swept streets were empty both of traffic and pedestrians, and viewed under a dull, leaden-coloured London sky, with a humid feeling in the air, Delphson Square looked like some deserted city waiting to be re-peopled.
As to the inhabitants, they mostly resembled their dwellings, being elderly, grim, and forbidding, dressed in the plainest puritanical fashion, yet one and all stamped with the impress of wealth.
Sad tints but rich stuffs, serious faces with port-wine complexions, little jewellery, but what there was, massive in the extreme--no ostentation, but a quietly-prosperous air, telling of snug banking accounts. Respectable-looking carriages, with fat horses and still fatter coachmen, at the grim doors every morning to take them drives in the Park. A general air of subdued religion about the place--they were all Broad Church, and held strong opinions about the ritual. No newspaper admitted into the square except the Times, which was heavy and respectable, hansoms unknown, even the sweeper who swept the crossings was serious-minded and given to dreary hymns in wet weather. Everybody went to bed at nine o'clock and rose at the same time in the morning; the tradesmen were always punctual and deferential, and the clocks were never out of order.
Miss Angelica Corbin lived in this delightful locality, and, as her residence there dated from the early part of the Victorian age, she was regarded as one of the oldest inhabitants.
A maiden lady of uncertain age and certain income, her life was conducted in a methodical fashion, which enabled her in a great measure to defy Time. As Miss Corbin was ten years ago she was at present, and would in all human probability be at the end of another decade. Quite at variance with the new-fangled ways of the present generation, this old gentlewoman looked like some disdainful spectre of a sedate past, solitary amid a frivolous present.
Her room, old-fashioned and changeless as herself, had about it the aroma of a former generation, when D'Orsay led the fashions, and people were still talking about Lord Byron, Waterloo, and the Reform Bill.
Situated on the ground floor above the basement, it had three windows of small-paned glass looking out on to the dreary square, and was large and airy, having an oval roof painted with designs of flowers, fruit, birds, and butterflies.
Under this cheerful ceiling a remarkably comfortable room, furnished in an antique style. Warm-coloured Turkish carpet, rather threadbare in places, woolly mats of different tints, heavy mahogany chairs and sofa, with slippery horsehair coverings; a solid-looking table of the same wood, draped with dark-green cloth; out-of-date piano, rigid against the wall, with faded drawn blue silk and tassels above its yellow ivory keys. An ancient fireplace with elaborate brass dogs' between which generally blazed a fire of logs (no coal for Miss Corbin, as she thought it detestable), and a massively-carved mantelpiece with quaint ornaments of Dresden china, in front of a gold-framed mirror swathed in green gauze.
On the left-hand side of the fireplace a tall book-case, with glass doors, fitting into a shallow recess and surmounted by a plaster of Parts bust of Shakespeare, imprisoned first editions of books popular in their owner's youth, editions priceless to bibliomaniacs. These, though now worth their weight in gold, never saw the light of day.