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She called to him from the window, and he came tramping across the sodden grass and put three letters into her outstretched hand.

[Pg 9]

"Intensely. They are histories in brick and stone, are they not? I dare say there are stories about this room."

Lostwithiel smiled his slow secret smile high up in the fainter firelight. He was reflecting upon his notion of Miss Crowther's great-grandmother, in linsey-wolsey, with a lavender print apron, a costume that would be hardly impressive at a Hunt Ball. He did not give the young lady credit for a great-grandmother from the Society point of view. There was the mother yonder—inoffensive respectability—the grandmother would be humbler—and the great-grandmother he imagined at the wash-tub, or cooking the noontide meal for an artisan husband. He had never yet[Pg 46] realized the idea of numerous generations of middle-class life upon the same plane, the same dead level of prosperous commerce.

[Pg 64]

"I'm a little bit out of sorts to-night," she said.

"What do I care for dinner on such a night as this; but, as a matter of plain truth, I must say that your new cook is a very bad substitute for Tabitha. Her soup was watery, her fish was greasy, her poultry is hardly eatable. If she has talents in any other line she is keeping them in reserve for another day. It may be that she excels in made-dishes—a misfortune for me, as I never eat them."

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