He smiled. “I am serious, I suppose, from the way in which I was brought up. We lived in Cornwall, right in the country, close to the seashore, with no houses near us, until I went to school. It was a very quiet household: my grandmother and my mother were both in widows’ weeds. There was very little talking, and no laughing or mirth of any kind, within the house, and always, as I now understand, the memory of that misfortune and the dread of new misfortunes were upon these unhappy ladies. They did not tell me anything, but I felt the sadness of the house. I suppose it made me a quiet boy--without much inclination to the light heart that possessed most of my fellows.” “I am glad you have told me,” she replied. “These things explain a good deal in you. For now I understand you better.” They mounted their cycles, and resumed the journey in silence for some miles. “Look!” he cried. “There is our old place.” He pointed across a park. At the end of it stood a house of red brick, with red tiles and stacks of red chimneys--a house of two stories only. In front was a carriage-drive, but no garden or enclosure at all. The house rose straight out of the park itself. “You see only the back of the house,” said Leonard. “The gardens are all in the front: but everything is grown over; nothing has been done to the place for seventy years. I wonder it has stood so long.” They turned off the road into the drive. “The old man, when the double shock fell upon him, dropped into a state of apathy from which he has never rallied. We must go round by the servant’s entrance. The front doors are never opened.” The great hall with the marble floor made echoes rolling and rumbling about the house above as they walked across it. There were arms on the walls and armour, but all rusted and decaying in the damp air. There were two or three pictures on the walls, but the colour had peeled off and the pictures had become ghosts and groups of ghosts in black frames.