In the afternoon he went out and bought a clothes-brush, a couple of hair-brushes, some scented soap, and other toilet requisites—of which he had not hitherto known the need in these chambers; and about five o’clock or a little thereafter, having carefully removed the last speck from his coat-sleeve, he crossed the way, and rather timidly knocked at the door. It was opened by the landlady’s daughter, who appeared at once surprised and pleased on finding who this visitor was. "Is Mr. Bethune at home?" he demanded—with some vaguely uncomfortable feeling that this damsel’s eyes looked too friendly. She seemed to understand everything—to have been expecting him. "Oh, yes, sir." "May I go upstairs?" He gave no name; but she did not hesitate for a moment. She led the way upstairs; she tapped lightly; and in answer to Mr. Bethune’s loud "Come in!" she opened the door, and said— "The young gentleman, sir,"—a form of announcement that might have struck Vincent as peculiar if he had not been much too occupied to notice. "Ah, how do you do—how do you do?" old George Bethune (who was alone) called out, and he pushed aside his book and came forward with extended hand. "Nothing like being neighbourly; solitary units in the great sea of London life have naturally some interest in each other: you would gather that I looked in on you last night—" "Yes," said the young man, as he took the proffered chair. "I am very sorry I happened to be out—I had to dine at home last evening—" "At home?" repeated Mr. Bethune, looking for the moment just a trifle puzzled. "Oh, yes," said his visitor, rather nervously. "Perhaps I didn’t explain. I don’t _live_ over there, you know. I only have the rooms for purposes of study; the place is so quiet I can get on better than at home; there are no interruptions—" "Except a little violin-playing?" the old man suggested, good-naturedly. "I wish there were more of that, sir," Vincent observed, respectfully. "That was only in the evenings; and I used to wait for it, to tell you the truth, as a kind of unintentional reward after my day’s work. But of late I have heard nothing; I hope that Miss Bethune was not offended that I ventured to—to open my piano at the same time—" "Oh, not at all—I can hardly think so," her grandfather said, airily. "She also has been busy with her books of late—it is Dante, I believe, at present—and as I insist on her always reading aloud, whatever the language is, she goes upstairs to her own room; so that I haven’t seen much of her in the evenings. Now may I offer you a cigar?" "No, thank you." "Or a glass of claret?" "No, thanks." "Then tell me what your studies are, that we may become better acquainted."