'You are Mr. Kirkwood?' said his visitor civilly. 'My name is
Snowdon. I should be glad to speak a few words with you, if you
could spare the time.'

Sidney's thoughts were instantly led into the right channel; he
identified the old man by his white hair and the cloak. The hat,
however, which had been described to him, was now exchanged for a
soft felt of a kind common enough; the guernsey, too, had been laid
aside. With ready goodwill he invited Mr. Snowdon to enter.

There was not much in the room to distinguish it from the dwelling
of any orderly mechanic. A small bed occupied one side; a small
table stood before the window; the toilet apparatus was, of course,
unconcealed; a half-open cupboard allowed a glimpse of crockery,
sundries, and a few books. The walls, it is true, were otherwise
ornamented than is usual; engravings, chromo-lithographs, and some
sketches of landscape in pencil, were suspended wherever light fell,
and the choice manifested in this collection was nowise akin to that
which ruled in Mrs. Peckover's parlour, and probably in all the
parlours of Tysoe Street. To select for one's chamber a woodcut
after Constable or Gainsborough is at all events to give proof of a
capacity for civilisation.

The visitor made a quick survey of these appearances; then he seated
himself on the chair Sidney offered. He was not entirely at his
ease, and looked up at the young man twice or thrice before he began
to speak again.

'Mr. Kirkwood, were you ever acquainted with my son, by name Joseph
Snowdon?'