“You will, I trust,” the voice was meditative, suggesting words ahead to be delivered with care: “not deem me intrewsive in expressing in your gracious presence,” indeed, Miriam felt, her presence was gracious compared to this exhalation of concentrated odours stifling and making her long to be away and up the stairs, “my respect and furthermore the great and happy en’ancement arriving upon this house by your coming, with your lady friend, _also_ most gracious, to abide beneath the roof that shelters my spouse and myself.” “We like being here,” said Miriam, politely, smiling into the darkness. “Lady, I thank you for your graciousness.” “Not at all,” she said, and felt him silent for an instant before an evidently unexpected lapse from gracious ladyhood. This was all most dreadful. His tone had been deep and broken; touching. Behind his bombast was something genuine, making high demands upon her, including her with Miss Holland, crowning her as a châtelaine. She had undeceived him, spoken brusquely, revealed her different state. “I am glad,” she added quickly, in Miss Holland’s most stately manner, reflecting that a gracious aloofness was an excellent protection, “that you find us pleasant neighbours.” “More than that,” came the low broken voice, and her eyes, used now to the dim light, saw that he bowed more deeply than ever. “No poor words of mine could avail to express the felicity experienced in the presence of beauty and graciousness. I would have you to know:” he reared his head and spoke upwards to the staircase, “that I am a repairer of statoos.” Ah, here was the secret, the real origin of the attack. But it was interesting. A queer trade. “You have made all those things in your window,” she said to encourage him, and standing a little nearer to the stairs composed herself to endure and listen. “I am a repairer of statoos. But let not that mislead you. These hands,” he upheld and waved them in the air, “recall to pristine loveliness _only_ the classic. In preference, the _Greek_.” He was breathing quickly, angrily. Poor man, without an audience. In his whole circumstances, no audience. Her interest in his work changed to a desire to give him freedom from minding. “It would be dreadful to waste your time repairing rubbish,” she said quickly and added, suddenly feeling that he was strong enough for an attempted truth, “only people sometimes love rubbish _very_ much. For them it is not rubbish.” “Let them love their rubbish, gracious lady, let them love—mistake me not. I have no quarrel with love. The love of the Saviour, the greatest of all lovers, redeems the statoo badly made to honour it. But not to Perrance, not to _Perrance_ let them come if their rubbish be broken. The classical, the Greek, that alone of the work of man’s hands can command the love of Perrance.