The room in which he met his tenants was thoroughly in keeping with its owner: old and dignified, panelled in dark wood, with a curiously-carved chimneypiece, and a ceiling apparently adorned with some historical or allegorical painting, if you could only have seen it.
How Mr Tankardew got into the room on the present occasion was by no means clear, for nobody saw him enter.
Mark suggested to Mary, in a whisper, that he had come up through a trap door. At any rate he was there, and greeted his visitors without embarrassment.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he muttered, “sorry to see you standing. Ah! Dusty, I see;” and with the long tail of his dressing-gown he proceeded to raise a cloud of dust from four massive oak chairs, much to the disturbance of Mark’s equanimity, who succeeded with some difficulty in maintaining his gravity. “Sorry,” added Mr Tankardew, “to appear in this dishabille, must excuse and take me as I am.”
“Pray don’t mention it,” replied both his tenants, and then proceeded to business.
The rent had been paid and receipts duly given, when the old man raised his eyes and fixed them on Mary’s face. She had been sitting back in the deep recess of a window, terribly afraid of a mirthful explosion from Mark, and therefore drawing herself as far out of sight as possible; but now a bright ray of sunshine cast itself full on her sweet, loving features, and as Mr Tankardew caught their expression he uttered a sudden exclamation, and stood for a moment as if transfixed to the spot. Mary felt and looked half-confused, half-frightened, but the next moment Mr Tankardew turned away, muttered something to himself, and then entered into the subject of requested alterations. His visitors had anticipated some probable difficulties, if not a refusal, on the part of their landlord; but to their surprise and satisfaction he promised at once to do all that they required: indeed he hardly seemed to take the matter in thoroughly, but to have his mind occupied with something quite foreign to the subject in hand. At last he said,—
“Well, well, get it all done—get it all done, Mr Rothwell, Mrs Franklin—get it all done, and send in the bills to me—there, there.”
Again he fixed his eyes earnestly on Mary’s face, then slowly withdrew
them, and striding up to the fireplace opened a panel above it, and disclosed an exquisite portrait of a young girl about Mary’s age. Nothing could be more striking than the contrast between the gloomy, dingy hue of the apartment, and the vivid colouring of the picture, which beamed out upon them like a rainbow spanning a storm-cloud. Then he closed the panel abruptly, and turned towards the company with a deep sigh.