“Although I was not a little curious to know what this ‘coming ashore’ meant, I felt that all my conversation had been categorical to monotony, and I determined, therefore, to reserve further inquiry until another occasion. Observing that my new friend was now looking at the caravan with considerable interest, I asked her if she knew what it was, and if she had ever seen anything like it before. She replied in the negative, though I think she had a tolerably good guess as to the caravan’s uses. I thought this a good opportunity to show my natural politeness. Would she like to look at the interior? She said she would, though without exhibiting much enthusiasm. “I thereupon led the way up the steps and into the vehicle. Matt followed; but, so soon as she caught a glimpse of the interior, stood timidly on the threshold. What is there in the atmosphere of a house, even the rudest, which places the visitor at a disadvantage as compared with the owner? Even animals feel this, and dogs especially, when visiting strange premises, exhibit most abject humility. But I must not generalize. The bearings of this remark, to quote my friend Captain Cuttle, lie in the application of it. Matt for a moment was awed. “‘Come in, Matt; come in,’ I said. “She came in by slow degrees; and I noticed for the first time--seeing how near her hat was to the roof,--that she was unusually tall. I then did the honours of the place; showed her my sleeping arrangements, my culinary implements, everything that I thought would interest her. I offered her the armchair, or turned-up bedstead; but she preferred a stool which I sometimes used for my feet, and sitting down upon it, looked round her with obvious admiration. “‘Should you like to live in a house like this?’ I asked encouragingly. “She shook her head with decision. “‘Why not?’ I demanded. “She did not exactly know why, or at any rate could not explain. Wishing to interest and amuse her, I handed her a portfolio of my sketches, chiefly in pencil and pen-and-ink, but a few in water-colours. Her manner changed at once, and she turned them over with little cries of delight. It was clear that Matt had a taste for the beautiful in Art, but her chief attraction was for pictures representing the human face or figure. “Among the sketches she found a crayon drawing of an antique and blear-eyed gentleman in a skull cap, copied from some Rembrandtish picture I had seen abroad. “‘I know who this is!’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s William Jones’s father!’ “I assured her on my honour that William Jones’s father was not personally known to me, but she seemed a little incredulous. Presently she rose to go.” “‘I can’t stop no longer,’ she explained; ‘I’ve got to go up to Monkshurst for William Jones.’ “‘Monkshurst? Is that where the polite Mr. Monk resides?’ “‘Yes; up in the wood,’ she replied, with a grimace expressive of no little dislike. “‘Is Mr. Monk a friend of yours?’