For the place was very gloomy and subdued within. The great leather porter's chair, the umbrella-stand, and the pictures all looked sombre and black. Even the two classical figures holding lamps, that had not been lighted for a quarter of a century at least, were swarthy, and a stranger would have gone stumbling and feeling his way along; but not so Vidler, Captain Robert Millet's handy servant. He was as much at home in the gloom as an owl, and in a quick, hurried way that was almost spasmodic he led the visitors upstairs, but only to stop on the first landing. "If I might make so bold, Miss Gertrude," he said, holding his head on one side. "I don't often see a flower now." The girl held up the bouquet, and the little man had a long sniff with a noise as if taking a pinch of snuff, said, "Thank you, miss," and went on up to the back drawing-room door, which was a little lighter than the staircase, for the top of the shutters of one of the three tall narrow windows was open. A glance round the room showed that it was scrupulously clean. Time had blackened the paint and ceiling, but everything that could be cleaned or polished was in the highest state of perfection. For Valentine Vidler and his wife Salome, being very religious and conscientious people, told themselves and one another nearly every day that as the master never supervised anything it was the more their duty to keep the place in the best of order. For instance, Vidler would say: "I don't think I shall clean all that plate over this week, Salome. It's as bright as it can be." When to him Salome: "Valentine, there's One above who knows all, and though your master may not know that you have not cleaned the plate, He will." "That's very true, Salome," the little man would say with a sigh, and then set to work in a green baize apron, and was soon be-rouged up to the eyes as he polished away. Another day, perhaps, it would be Salome's turn; for the temptation, as she called it, would attack her. The weather would be hot, perhaps, and a certain languid feeling, the result of a want of change, would come over her. "Valentine," she would say, perhaps, "I think the big looking-glass in the drawing-room will do this week; it's as clean as clean." "Hah!" would say Valentine, with a sigh, "Satan has got tight hold of you again, my dear little woman. It is your weakness that you ought to resist. Do you think the Lord cannot see those three fly-specks at the bottom corner? Resist the temptation, woman; resist it." Then little Salome, who was a tiny plump downy woman, who somehow reminded people of a thick potato-shoot that had grown in the dark, would sigh, put on an apron that covered her all over except her face, climb on a pair of steps, and polish the great mirror till it was as clear as hands could make it.