‘What do you want? Who are you?’ he asked.
‘Am I speaking to Mr. Babb?’
‘Yes, you are.’
‘May I have a few words with you in private?’
‘Oh, there is no one in the house, except my housekeeper, and she is deaf. You can say what you want here.’
‘Who is there to take my horse?’
‘You can hold him by the bridle, and talk to me where you stand. There’s no occasion for you to come in.’
Barbara saw into the hall; it was floored with stone, the Buckfastleigh marble, but unpolished. The walls had been papered with glazed imitation panelling, but the paper had peeled off, and hung in strips. A chair with wooden seat, that had not been wiped for weeks, a set of coat and hat pegs, some broken, on one a very discoloured great coat and a battered hat. In a corner a bulging green umbrella, the silk detached from the whalebone.
‘You see,’ said the old man grimly, half turning, as he noticed that Barbara’s eyes were observing the interior; ‘you see, this is no place for ladies. It is a weaving spider’s web, not a gallant’s bower.’