‘Those on the top are healthier, no doubt,’ was the young man’s reply.  ’I noticed that some of the window-glass is broken.  That must have been good for airing.’

Mr. Spicer grew more and more nervous.  He opened his little round mouth, very much like a fish gasping, but seemed unable to speak.  Silently he led the way to the top story, still amid cobwebs; the atmosphere was certainly purer up here, and when they entered the first room they found themselves all at once in such a flood of glorious sunshine that Goldthorpe shouted with delight.

’Ah, I could live here!  Would it cost much to have panes put in?  An old woman with a broom would do the rest.’  He added in a moment, ’But the back windows are not broken, I think?’

‘No—­I think not—­I—­no—­’

Mr. Spicer gasped and stammered.  He stood holding the candle (its light invisible) so that the grease dripped steadily on his trousers.

‘Let’s have a look at the other,’ cried Goldthorpe.  ’It gets the afternoon sun, no doubt.  And one would have a view of the garden.’

‘Stop, sir!’ broke from his companion, who was red and perspiring.  ’There’s something I should like to tell you before you go into that room.  I—­it—­the fact is, sir, that—­temporarily—­I am occupying it myself.’

‘Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Spicer!’

’Not at all, sir!  Don’t mention it, sir.  I have a reason—­it seemed to me—­I’ve merely put in a bed and a table, sir, that’s all—­a temporary arrangement.’

’Yes, yes; I quite understand.  What could be more sensible?  If the house were mine, I should do the same.  What’s the good of owning a house, and making no use of it?’

Great was Mr. Spicer’s satisfaction.

‘See what it is, sir,’ he exclaimed, ’to have to do with a literary man!  You are large-minded, sir; you see things from an intellectual point of view.  I can’t tell you how it gratifies me, sir, to have made your acquaintance.  Let us go into the back room.’

With nervous boldness he threw the door open.  Goldthorpe, advancing respectfully, saw that Mr. Spicer had not exaggerated the simplicity of his arrangements.  In a certain measure the room had been cleaned, but along the angle of walls and ceiling there still clung a good many cobwebs, and the state of the paper was deplorable.  A blind hung at the window, but the floor had no carpet.  In one corner stood a little camp bed, neatly made for the day; a table and a chair, of the cheapest species, occupied the middle of the floor, and on the hearth was an oil cooking-stove.

‘It’s wonderful how little one really wants,’ remarked Mr. Spicer, ’at all events in weather such as this.  I find that I get along here very well indeed.  The only expense I had was for the water-supply.  And really, sir, when one comes to think of it, the situation is pleasant.  If one doesn’t mind loneliness—­and it happens that I don’t.  I have my books, sir—­’