"Certainly, sir, certainly," Hobson said, jumping to his feet with alacrity, and hastily draining his glass. "They’re all tidied up, sir, against the chance of a lodger. And won’t the missus be surprised!—for the women, sir, the women, you see, sir, they likes to haggle and bargain, but with men, sir, begging your pardon, sir, it’s a word and done!" Indeed he seemed quite proud of the promptitude with which he had conducted and concluded this negotiation; and it was with an unusual air of authority and importance that he led the way upstairs and showed Vincent into the little parlour, with which he was already abundantly familiar. There were few alterations. The old man’s books, Maisrie’s music, and similar personal belongings, had disappeared; and a hideous purple vase stood for ornament in the middle of the table. The pallid lithographs were still on the walls; Maisrie’s chrysanthemums were out there in the little iron balcony. "Would you like to see the rooms upstairs, sir?" The young man hesitated for a second. "Oh, very well." Hobson led the way up to the next landing; and there the first door he came to he flung wide open. "The young lady’s room, sir." But Vincent did not accept the implied invitation. He hung shamefacedly back. "Oh, yes, that’s all right," said he. "I—I only wished to—to have it kept for her." And yet he lingered for another second at the door of this chamber—that seemed so sacred—that seemed to shut him out. He could see the dressing-table, the chest of drawers, the neatly folded bed, the rather dingy window. "Look here, Hobson," said he, "if I were to get a few things to make the room a little more cheerful, I suppose that could be done without letting Miss Bethune know who sent them? The looking-glass there—you know, that is not the right kind of thing at all; there should be a pretty mirror on the dressing-table, with some lace round the top of it——" Here he ventured in half a step or so, and rather timidly looked round. "That one gas-jet can’t be half enough, when Miss Bethune is dressing to go out in the evening," he said, complainingly—perhaps to conceal his incomprehensible diffidence and shyness. "She must have candles—one on each side of the mirror, for example. And that screen across the window, why, it is so common!—it ought to be a piece of pale silk—to let the light through." He ventured a few inches further, and again looked round. "What do you call that thing?—the coverlet—the counterpane—isn’t it? Well, it shouldn’t be white, and cold, and cheerless like that; it should be a deep crimson satin—and there should be pretty things at the head of the bed—loops and bows of ribbon—my goodness, what is Mrs. Hobson about!—a young lady’s room shouldn’t be like a cell in a prison!" "Law, sir, I’m very sorry," Hobson said, in a bewildered way: a crimson satin coverlet sounded a grand thing; but it also meant a heap of money.