“I thereupon led the way up the steps and into the vehicle. Matt followed; but, so soon as she caught a glimpse of the interior, stood timidly on the threshold. What is there in the atmosphere of a house, even the rudest, which places the visitor at a disadvantage as compared with the owner? Even animals feel this, and dogs especially, when visiting strange premises, exhibit most abject humility. But I must not generalize. The bearings of this remark, to quote my friend Captain Cuttle, lie in the application of it. Matt for a moment was awed.
“‘Come in, Matt; come in,’ I said.
“She came in by slow degrees; and I noticed for the first time—seeing how near her hat was to the roof,—that she was unusually tall. I then did the honours of the place; showed her my sleeping arrangements, my culinary implements, everything that I thought would interest her. I offered her the armchair, or turned-up bedstead; but she preferred a stool which I sometimes used for my feet, and sitting down upon it, looked round her with obvious admiration.
“‘Should you like to live in a house like this?’ I asked encouragingly.
“She shook her head with decision.
“‘Why not?’ I demanded.
“She did not exactly know why, or at any rate could not explain. Wishing to interest and amuse her, I handed her a portfolio of my sketches, chiefly in pencil and pen-and-ink, but a few in water-colours. Her manner changed at once, and she turned them over with little cries of delight. It was clear that Matt had a taste for the beautiful in Art, but her chief attraction was for pictures representing the human face or figure.
“Among the sketches she found a crayon drawing of an antique and blear-eyed gentleman in a skull cap, copied from some Rembrandtish picture I had seen abroad.
“‘I know who this is!’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s William Jones’s father!’
“I assured her on my honour that William Jones’s father was not personally known to me, but she seemed a little incredulous. Presently she rose to go.”