He went through the collection, seeing things as well as he could by the light of a solitary candle. Mr. Sivewright displayed his various treasures with infinite enthusiasm; dilating upon the modelling here, the colouring there; through all the technicalities of art. He kept his guest absorbed in this investigation for nearly two hours, although there were moments when the younger man’s thoughts wandered back to the parlour where they had left Lucille. He was thinking of her even while he appeared to listen with intense interest to Mr. Sivewright’s explanation of the difference between _pâte tendre_ and _pâte dure_; wondering if she lived alone in that huge rambling house with her grandfather, like little Nell in the _Old Curiosity Shop_; only it was to be hoped with no such diabolical familiar as Quilp privileged to intrude upon her solitude. So anxious was he to be satisfied on this point, that he ventured to ask the question, despite his previous ill-fortune. ‘Yes,’ answered Mr. Sivewright coolly, ‘we live quite alone. Dull, you’ll say, perhaps, for my granddaughter. If it is, she must resign herself to circumstances. There are worse things to bear than want of company. If she hadn’t this home, she’d have none. Well, I suppose you’ve seen as many of these things as you care about. I can see your mind’s wandering. So we may as well bid each other good-night. I’m obliged to you for your civility this afternoon. This way.’ He opened the door into the hall. A somewhat abrupt dismissal, and one Lucius had not expected. He had reckoned upon finishing his evening far more pleasantly in the society of Lucille. ‘I should like to bid Miss Sivewright good-evening,’ he said. ‘There’s no occasion. I can do it for you. There’s your hat, on the black-marble slab yonder,’ said the old man, seeing his visitor looking round in search of that article, with a faint hope that he might have left it in the parlour. ‘Thanks. But I hope you don’t forbid my coming to see you again sometimes?’ Lucius asked bluntly. ‘Humph!’ muttered the old man, ‘it would sound ungracious to talk of forbidding any future visit. But I have lived in this house five years, and have not made an acquaintance. One of the chief attractions of this place, to my mind, was the fact that it was cut off by a ten-foot wall from the world outside. With every wish to be civil, I can’t see why I should make an exception in your favour. Besides, you’ve seen all there is worth seeing within these walls; you could have no possible pleasure in coming to us. We are poor, and we live poorly.’ ‘I am not a seeker of wealthy acquaintance. A quiet fireside—an atmosphere of home—brightened by the refinements of art; that is what I should value above all things in a house where I was free to visit; and that your house could give me. But if you say No, I submit. I cannot force myself upon you.’