d, if she thought him delightful, too, she had had to get
through a great many dusty newspapers to find him.

Mrs. Waterlow lived, away from the gardened houses of Chislebridge, in a
small but rather stately house with a Georgian facade which stood on one
of the narrower, older streets. They went up two or three stone steps
from the pavement and knocked at a very bright and massive knocker, and
the door was opened by a middle-aged Quakerish maid. The drawing-room
was on the ground floor, and Mrs. Waterlow led him in.

Owen's astonishment, when he entered, prompted him to stand still and
to gaze about him; but luckily he could not yield to the impulse, for he
had to cross to the fire, near which, behind her tea-table, old Mrs.
Waterlow sat, and had to be presented to her and to the middle-aged,
academic-looking lady who was having tea with her. He was glad of the
respite, for he had received a shock.

Old Mrs. Waterlow had dark, authoritative eyes and white hair much
dressed under black lace, and the finest of hands, decorated with old
seals and old diamonds. She must, he felt, be a companion at once
inspiriting and disquieting, for she had the demeanour of a naughty,
haughty child, and, as she held Owen in talk for some moments, he
perceived that her conversation was of a sort to cause alarm and
amusement in her listeners. Poor old Professor Selden, who was
mentioned, offered her an opportunity for the frankest witticisms,
and,--when her daughter-in-law protested,--"Yes, dear, I know you are
fond of him," the old lady replied, "and so am I; but he is, all the
same, very like a damp potato that has begun to sprout."

"Now look at my pagoda, Mr. Stacpole," said young Mrs. Waterlow,
laughing, yet, he saw, not pleased, and turning from the fire where she
had been standing with her foot on the fender.

"Does Mr. Stacpole care for bric-a-brac, too?" old Mrs. Waterlow
inquired. "Cicely came home with this last treasure in as much triumph
as if some one had left her a fortune. I resent the pagoda because it
means that she will go without a spring hat. She is always coming home
in triumph and always doing without hats; and I sit here without an atom
of taste, and get the credit for hers. Frankly, Sybilla, my dear," she
addressed the academic lady, "I'd be quite content to sit upon red reps
and to cover my tea-pot with a pink satin cosy with apple-blossoms
painted on it. I had such a cosy given to me this Christmas; but Cicel