Finally I discovered a man--a workingman--whose face beamed at the mention
of William Morris. Later I found that if a man knew William Morris, his
heart throbbed at the mention of his name, and he at once grew voluble and
confidential and friendly. It was the "Open Sesame," And if a person did
not know William Morris, he simply didn't, and that was all there was
about it.

But the man I met knew "Th' Ole Man," which was the affectionate title
used by all the hundreds and thousands who worked with William Morris. And
to prove that he knew him, when I asked that he should direct me to the
Upper Mall, he simply insisted on going with me. Moreover, he told a
needless lie and declared he was on the way there, although when we met he
was headed in the other direction. By a devious walk of half a mile we
reached the high iron fence of Kelmscott House. We arrived amid a florid
description of the Icelandic Sagas as told by my new-found friend and
interpreted by Th' Ole Man. My friend had not read the Sagas, but still he
did not hesitate to recommend them; and so we passed through the wide-open
gates and up the stone walk to the entrance of Kelmscott House. On the
threshold we met F.S. Ellis and Emery Walker, who addressed my companion
as "Tom." I knew Mr. Ellis slightly, and also had met Mr. Walker, who
works Rembrandt miracles with a camera.

Mr. Ellis was deep in seeing the famous "Chaucer" through the press, and
Mr. Walker had a print to show, so we turned aside, passed a great pile of
paper in crates that cluttered the hallway, and entered the library.
There, leaning over the long, oaken table, in shirt-sleeves, was the
master. Who could mistake that great, shaggy head, the tangled beard, and
frank, open-eyed look of boyish animation?