old washstand or so, and bunks filled with straw. We had no such things
as tablecloths and sheets, of course. Everything was on a like scale of
simple utility.

All right, get that in your mind. The interior into which I now stepped,
with my clanking spurs, my rattling _chaps_, the dust of my
sweat-stained garments, was a low-ceilinged, dim abode with faint, musty
aromas. Carpets covered the floors; an old-fashioned hat rack flanked
the door on one side, a tall clock on the other. I saw in passing framed
steel engravings. The room beyond contained easy chairs, a sofa
upholstered with hair cloth, an upright piano, a marble fireplace with a
mantel, in a corner a triangular what-not filled with objects. It, too,
was dim and curtained and faintly aromatic as had been the house of an
old maiden aunt of my childhood, who used to give me cookies on the
Sabbath. I felt now too large, and too noisy, and altogether mis-dressed
and blundering and dirty. The little old man moved without a sound, and
the grandfather's clock outside ticked deliberately in a hollow silence.

I sat down, rather gingerly, in the chair he indicated for me.

"I shall be very glad to offer you hospitality for the night," he said,
as though there had been no interim. "I feel honoured at the
opportunity."

I murmured my thanks, and a suggestion that I should look after my
horse.

"Your horse, sir, has been attended to, and your _cantinas_[B] are
undoubtedly by now in your room, where, I am sure, you are anxious to
repair."