Somerset had noticed it, and thought he had never seen such a full-blown one in the open air before. His eyes were, however, resting at the moment on the only objects at all out of the common that the dining-room contained. One was a singular glass case over the fireplace, within which were some large mediaeval door-keys, black with rust and age; and the others were two full-length oil portraits in the costume of the end of the last century--so out of all proportion to the size of the room they occupied that they almost reached to the floor. ‘Those originally belonged to the castle yonder,’ said Miss De Stancy, or Charlotte, as her father called her, noticing Somerset’s glance at the keys. ‘They used to unlock the principal entrance-doors, which were knocked to pieces in the civil wars. New doors were placed afterwards, but the old keys were never given up, and have been preserved by us ever since.’ ‘They are quite useless--mere lumber--particularly to me,’ said Sir William. ‘And those huge paintings were a present from Paula,’ she continued. ‘They are portraits of my great-grandfather and mother. Paula would give all the old family pictures back to me if we had room for them; but they would fill the house to the ceilings.’ Sir William was impatient of the subject. ‘What is the utility of such accumulations?’ he asked. ‘Their originals are but clay now--mere forgotten dust, not worthy a moment’s inquiry or reflection at this distance of time. Nothing can retain the spirit, and why should we preserve the shadow of the form?--London has been very full this year, sir, I have been told?’ ‘It has,’ said Somerset, and he asked if they had been up that season. It was plain that the matter with which Sir William De Stancy least cared to occupy himself before visitors was the history of his own family, in which he was followed with more simplicity by his daughter Charlotte. ‘No,’ said the baronet. ‘One might be led to think there is a fatality which prevents it. We make arrangements to go to town almost every year, to meet some old friend who combines the rare conditions of being in London with being mindful of me; but he has always died or gone elsewhere before the event has taken place.... But with a disposition to be happy, it is neither this place nor the other that can render us the reverse. In short each man’s happiness depends upon himself, and his ability for doing with little.’ He turned more particularly to Somerset, and added with an impressive smile: ‘I hope you cultivate the art of doing with little?’ Somerset said that he certainly did cultivate that art, partly because he was obliged to.