'She is as she always is now. Keeps her room when not actually
bedridden, and hasn't been out of it fifteen times in as many
years, Arthur.' They had walked into a spare, meagre dining-room.
The old man had put the candlestick upon the table, and, supporting
his right elbow with his left hand, was smoothing his leathern jaws
while he looked at the visitor. The visitor offered his hand. The
old man took it coldly enough, and seemed to prefer his jaws, to
which he returned as soon as he could.

'I doubt if your mother will approve of your coming home on the
Sabbath, Arthur,' he said, shaking his head warily.

'You wouldn't have me go away again?'

'Oh! I? I? I am not the master. It's not what _I_ would have.
I have stood between your father and mother for a number of years.
I don't pretend to stand between your mother and you.'

'Will you tell her that I have come home?'

'Yes, Arthur, yes. Oh, to be sure! I'll tell her that you have
come home. Please to wait here. You won't find the room changed.'

He took another candle from a cupboard, lighted it, left the first
on the table, and went upon his errand. He was a short, bald old
man, in a high-shouldered black coat and waistcoat, drab breeches,
and long drab gaiters. He might, from his dress, have been either
clerk or servant, and in fact had long been both. There was
nothing about him in the way of decoration but a watch, which was
lowered into the depths of its proper pocket by an old black