It was in the corner-house kitchen that their tour had come to an end, and there he had really started to talk—that is, as much as anything that ever came out of that taciturn mouth could truly be termed talk. It seemed to her that she could see him now, standing in the west window, a still sturdy and square figure, although getting a little bent. At least she was almost sure she could see his clothes, with their bulging pockets and bagged knees—clothes which were yet so full of character that, in brushing them, she had always felt as if she was brushing old Mr. T. And although they were shabby and out of shape, they were made of such stuff that they couldn’t wear out—never _did_ wear out, indeed, as far as the charwoman knew. For years she had traced those clothes, first on the back of one person and then on another, and always, no matter who was inside them, looking exactly like old Mr. T.... His square hands had been thrust behind him under the tails of his square-cut coat, and his square grey hat had been pushed to the back of his square head. From under his thick eyebrows his keen grey eyes had stared at the view, and from between the white whiskers rimming his shaven chin he had jerked the stiff speeches from his obstinate mouth. “Best of the bunch, eh, Jones?” he had demanded proudly. “Long chalks the best of the bunch! It’s that window makes it ... thought it would ... felt sure. Felt d—d sure, in fact, but the architect wouldn’t have it. Had the devil of a lot of trouble with that architect, taking it all round. You know what a devil of a lot of trouble I’ve had with him, don’t you, Jones?” “Jones” murmured respectful assent, remembering with awe terrible battles overheard through the study door, together with the lurid comments of old Mr. T. after the architect had gone away. “Couldn’t be made to see old folks should have the best. Couldn’t grasp anyhow that they had groggy knees ... blind eyes ... shaky old hearts. Would have sent them climbing here and diving there—acrobatics all over the place—if he’d had his way. He’s too young—that’s what’s the matter with _him_; forty years too young. It takes the old to build for the old; young folk can’t understand.” He took a hand from his coat-tails and pushed his hat further to the back of his head. “My first almshouses ... not a patch on these ... too d—d young myself. But he’ll begin to see what I was driving at in another forty years.” “Jones” had been young, too, in those days, and in spite of her commendation she had not really understood, either. She had had to wait until to-day to grasp what his patience and insight had really meant. She, too, had had to wait forty years. But at all events she understood now, with admiration and grateful tears. In the heart of this one of his numerous “Joneses” at least Mr. T. had his due reward. It was somewhere about this point that he had offered her the house, clinching her pride in the offer with the historic speech.