Amelius obeyed. The window had been opened for a few inches at the top, no doubt to ventilate the room. The dull view of the courtyard was varied by the stables at the farther end, and by the kitchen skylight rising in the middle of the open space. As Amelius looked out, he observed that some person at that moment in the kitchen required apparently a large supply of fresh air. The swinging window, on the side of the skylight which was nearest to him, was invisibly and noiselessly pulled open from below; the similar window, on the other side, being already wide open also. Judging by appearance, the inhabitants of the kitchen possessed a merit which is exceedingly rare among domestic servants--they understood the laws of ventilation, and appreciated the blessing of fresh air. “That will do,” said Mrs. Farnaby. “You can turn round now.” Amelius turned. Mrs. Farnaby’s boots and stockings were on the hearthrug, and one of Mrs. Farnaby’s feet was placed, ready for inspection, on the chair which he had just left. “Look at my right foot first,” she said, speaking gravely and composedly in her ordinary tone. It was well worth looking at--a foot equally beautiful in form and in colour: the instep arched and high, the ankle at once delicate and strong, the toes tinged with rose-colour at the tips. In brief, it was a foot to be photographed, to be cast in plaster, to be fondled and kissed. Amelius attempted to express his admiration, but was not allowed to get beyond the first two or three words. “No,” Mrs. Farnaby explained, “this is not vanity--simply information. You have seen my right foot; and you have noticed that there is nothing the matter with it. Very well. Now look at my left foot.” She put her left foot up on the chair. “Look between the third toe and the fourth,” she said. Following his instructions, Amelius discovered that the beauty of the foot was spoilt, in this case, by a singular defect. The two toes were bound together by a flexible web, or membrane, which held them to each other as high as the insertion of the nail on either side. “Do you wonder,” Mrs. Farnaby asked, “why I show you the fault in my foot? Amelius! my poor darling was born with my deformity--and I want you to know exactly what it is, because neither you nor I can say what reason for remembering it there may not be in the future.” She stopped, as if to give him an opportunity of speaking. A man shallow and flippant by nature might have seen the disclosure in a grotesque aspect. Amelius was sad and silent. “I like you better and better,” she went on. “You are not like the common run of men. Nine out of ten of them would have turned what I have just told you into a joke--nine out of ten would have said, ‘Am I to ask every girl I meet to show me her left foot?’ You are above that; you understand me. Have I no means of recognizing my own child, now?” She smiled, and took her foot off the chair--then, after a moment’s thought, she pointed to it again.