The small servant showed George into a tiny room, the furniture and arrangement of which told more of its owner’s history than the hall had done. For it was a room which belonged to an anterior period of civilization. The carpet was of the aggressive kind, with old fashioned impossibly-colored roses. There was an inlaid round table, much too big for the room, jutting a long way out of one corner; the piano was worn and old-fashioned, the chairs were evidently relics of two or three different suits of furniture. The books were suggestive too--the “Pilgrim’s Progress,” with much gilt on the binding, odd numbers of the _Sunday at Home_, and the current number of the _Quiver_, two or three _Keepsakes_, some little-used volumes of miscellaneous poetry, which looked like school-prizes, _et cetera_. But the ornaments spoke more plainly than anything in the room--large, blue-glass vases on the mantel-piece, crochet antimacassars, each of a different pattern, over the chairs; and every ornament stood on a wool mat. He had to wait some time; he heard Mrs. Mansfield go softly past the door and up the stairs, and the small servant follow her with hot water, as he could tell by her spilling it as she went along. Presently the door opened, and a woman of about forty, dressed in rusty black, much covered by trimmings which enhanced the shabbiness they were meant to hide, came in and apologized more than was necessary. He stated the object of his visit as soon as he could. He had come on behalf of his mother and some other friends of Miss Lane, to find out her address. “I could not have given it you myself before this morning,” said Mrs. Mansfield. “She has written twice to me since she left Garstone; but it was only in the letter I received to-day from her that she put any address. She is lodging in London by herself, and trying to get daily pupils.” “Are you going to see her?” asked George. “No, I have no time; she knows that herself, and doesn’t expect me.” “Do you approve of her plan of living by herself? It seems a strange one for such a young girl.” “Indeed Annie doesn’t trouble herself about my approval. I can’t say I think it a proper thing for a girl to do who has been brought up like Annie; but she is so obstinate--just like her mother, my poor sister.” “It is a great pity that she does not consult you more,” said George deferentially. “Having no mother, she ought certainly to defer to you as her representative.” “That is just what I say!” cried Mrs. Mansfield, growing confidential. “I have begged her to come and live here; the house is certainly smaller than she is used to, but still it’s a home, and she would be more comfortable, or she ought to be”--this with some asperity--“among her own relations.” “Certainly,” said George, with conviction. He had just caught the sound of children quarreling and screaming up-stairs, and his thoughts hardly went with his words.