It was the only house upon the hill which boasted two front entrances. Through the shining windows of the lower story, on a level with the street, he saw violins in all stages of making, but otherwise, the room was empty. So he climbed the short flight of steps and rang the bell. The wire was slack and rusty, but after two or three trials a mournful clang came from the depths of the interior. At last the door was opened, cautiously, by a woman whose flushed face and red, wrinkled fingers betrayed her recent occupation. "I beg your pardon," said Irving, making his best bow. "Is Herr Kaufmann at home?" "Not yet," she replied, "he will have gone for his walk. You will be coming in?" She asked the question as though she feared an affirmative answer. "If I may, please," he returned, carefully wiping his feet upon the mat. "Do you expect him soon?" "Yes." She ushered him into the front room and pointed to a chair. "You will please excuse me," she said. "Certainly! Do not let me detain you." Left to himself, he looked about the room with amused curiosity. The furnishings were a queer combination of primitive American ideas and modern German fancies, overlaid with a feminine love of superfluous ornament. The Teutonic fondness for colour ran riot in everything, and purples, reds, and yellows were closely intermingled. The exquisite neatness of the place was its redeeming feature. Apparently, there were two other rooms on the same floor--a combined kitchen and dining-room was just back of the parlour, and a smaller room opened off of it. Lynn was meditating upon Herr Kaufmann's household arrangements, when a wonderful object upon the table in the corner attracted his attention, and he went over to examine it. Obviously, it had once been a section of clay drainage pipe, but in its sublimated estate it was far removed from common uses. It had been smeared with putty, and, while plastic, ornamented with hinges, nails, keys, clock wheels, curtain rings, and various other things not usually associated with drainage pipes. When dry, it had been given further distinction by two or three coats of gold paint. A wire hair-pin, placed conspicuously near the top of it, was rendered so ridiculous by the gilding that Lynn laughed aloud. Then, influenced by the sound of the scrubbing-brush close at hand, he endeavoured to cover it with a cough. He was too late, however, for, almost immediately, his hostess appeared in the doorway. "Mine crazy jug," she said, with gratified pride beaming from every feature. "I was just looking at it," responded Lynn. "It is marvellous. Did you make it yourself?" "Yes, I make him mineself," she said, and then retreated, blushing with innocent pleasure.