“Oh, excuse me,” he said, confusedly. “I am so little in ladies’ society that I don’t know how to act.”
“We’ve got a tiny wharf at the end of our back yard,” said Berty. “You’ll know it because all the wharves round are black and dingy, but ours is painted pink and white. There it is—look ahead and you’ll see.”
The Mayor looked, and soon the little boat was gliding toward the gay flight of steps.
“Now will you tie her up and come in through the house?” asked Berty, politely.
The Mayor did as he was requested, and, stepping ashore, curiously followed his guide up through the tidy back yard to the big old-fashioned house that seemed to peer with its small eyes of windows far out over the river.
On the ground floor were a kitchen and pantry and several good-sized rooms that had been used for servants’ quarters in the first, palmy days of the old mansion.
“A pity this neighbourhood was given up to poor people,” said the Mayor, as he tramped up a narrow, dark stairway behind his guide.
“A blessing that they have something so lovely as this river view,” said Berty, quickly. “I can’t tell you how we appreciate it after our limited outlook from Grand Avenue. Here is our dining-room,” and she threw open the door of a large room at the back of the house.
Mr. Jimson stepped in somewhat awkwardly. The room was plainly furnished, but the small windows were open, and also a glass door leading to a veranda, where a table was prepared for the evening meal. He could see a white cloth, and numerous dishes covered and uncovered.
“Grandma,” said Berty, “here is Mr. Jimson—you remember hearing me speak of him.”