The windows of Mr. Carroll's rooms open on the “Ton Quad,” as it is called, because of the nearness to Great Tom, and they found the janitor, who had been informed of their coming, ready to unlock the door for them.
“Do you think we have driven Mr. Dodgson away by planning to come here this afternoon?” asked Dorothy, feeling that this invasion of a man's room in his absence bordered on intrusion, and hesitating to step over the threshold.
“Like as not, mum,” replied the old janitor honestly, “he's grown that averse to mingling much with folk, be they big or little.”
“But he wrote me very cordially to come, only that he had an engagement and would not be at home.”
“Then he probably told you the truth, mum. He often goes off on a ten-mile tramp of a Sunday afternoon with one of the professors. He left word that he'd not be home till six, mum, so you needn't be thinking of leaving till half-past five, mum;” and so it was plainly evident that Lewis Carroll wanted to run no risk of seeing them at either end of their visit, and Dorothy could not help feeling a little piqued.
“I am sorry Mr. Dodgson is so much afraid of meeting us,” she said with a sigh; “we used to live in Oxford, and he was a good friend of mine when I was a child. It seems strange he ceases to care for his little friends as soon as they are grown up.”
“You must leave an old bachelor to his foibles, mum. It seems as though they must have them of one sort or another. I'm a bachelor myself, mum, and have me own little peculiarities, they tell me, mum.”
“Oh, Miss Dorothy, please look here! These are the photographs Mr. Carroll wrote you about!” called Marie-Celeste, for she and Harold had had no misgivings whatever about making their way into a room to which they had been granted privileged entrance; and after a reconnoitring tour round its borders had naturally brought up at the portfolio, to which their attention had been specially directed in Mr. Carroll's note.
“The door has a spring lock, mum,” explained the janitor; “will you kindly make sure to close it on leaving?” and with this parting injunction he left them to their own devices.
It seems that in the old days, when Lewis Carroll loved to play host to the children, they would often come to take afternoon tea in his lodgings, and then likely as not, if the light were good, he would spirit them into a 'room fitted up for the purpose and take their pictures; and then, if they promised to be good and not to bother, they might follow him into the queer-smelling little room where he made the pictures come out, and they would be permitted to have a look at the dripping glass plate, from which they could seldom make head nor tail, held up against the dark-room's lantern for inspection. But, all the same, their faith in the result was supreme; for what could a wizard not do who could weave fairy-tales so wonderfully as not to have them seem like fairy-tales at all. And so this portfolio, extended to its uttermost, was literally stuffed with pictures; and what did they discover, to their surprised delight, lying right on the top of the pile, but three or four unmistakable photographs of Harry and Dorothy Allyn, which had evidently been placed there by design. Dorothy was pleased at this little attention, and partly forgave Mr. Carroll his antipathy to renewing old friendships.