There was a doubtful look about Hobson's big, vacuous eyes: being of a poetic and sensitive nature he did not like jokes, and was suspicious. However, the young gentleman, to judge by his manner, seemed fair and honest and above-board.
"I will take them," said Vincent, "until Mr. Bethune and his granddaughter come back. Not to occupy them myself, you understand; but I don't want any stranger to be going into these rooms, you see—that is all."
"How kind, sir—how thoughtful!" Hobson said, in a pathetic way. "That it is to have good, kind friends!"
"And as the rooms are now mine, I suppose I might go over and look at them—if you will finish up your tumbler?"
"Certainly, sir, certainly," Hobson said, jumping to his feet with alacrity, and hastily draining his glass. "They're all tidied up, sir, against the chance of a lodger. And won't the missus be surprised!—for the women, sir, the women, you see, sir, they likes to haggle and bargain, but with men, sir, begging your pardon, sir, it's a word and done!"
Indeed he seemed quite proud of the promptitude with which he had conducted and concluded this negotiation; and it was with an unusual air of authority and importance that he led the way upstairs and showed Vincent into the little parlour, with which he was already abundantly familiar. There were few alterations. The old man's books, Maisrie's music, and similar personal belongings, had disappeared; and a hideous purple vase stood for ornament in the middle of the table. The pallid lithographs were still on the walls; Maisrie's chrysanthemums were out there in the little iron balcony.
"Would you like to see the rooms upstairs, sir?"
The young man hesitated for a second.
"Oh, very well."
Hobson led the way up to the next landing; and there the first door he came to he flung wide open.