I put my overcoat on the sofa, picked up the candle and glanced at the books in the corner:  Lavater’s indestructible work, a paper-covered Whitaker, the Licensed Victuallers’ Almanac, Johnny Ludlow, the illustrated catalogue of the Exhibition of 1856, Cruden’s Concordance, and seven or eight volumes of Knight’s Penny Encyclopaedia.  While I was poring on these titles I heard movements overhead—­previously there had been no sound whatever—­and with guilty haste I restored the candle to the table and placed myself negligently in front of the fire.

“Now don’t let me see ye up here any more till I fetch ye!” said a woman’s distant voice—­not crossly, but firmly.  And then, crossly:  “Be off with ye now!”

Reluctant boots on the stairs!  Jos Myatt entered to me.  He did not speak at first; nor did I. He avoided my glance.  He was still wearing the cut-away coat with the line of mud up the back.  I took out my watch, not for the sake of information, but from mere nervousness, and the sight of the watch reminded me that it would be prudent to wind it up.

“Better not forget that,” I said, winding it.

“Ay!” said he, gloomily.  “It’s a tip.”  And he wound up his watch; a large, thick, golden one.

This watch-winding established a basis of intercourse between us.

“I hope everything is going on all right,” I murmured.

“What dun ye say?” he asked.

“I say I hope everything is going on all right,” I repeated louder, and jerked my head in the direction of the stairs, to indicate the place from which he had come.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, as if surprised.  “Now what’ll ye have, mester?” He stood waiting.  “It’s my call to-night.”

I explained to him that I never took alcohol.  It was not quite true, but it was as true as most general propositions are.

“Neither me!” he said shortly, after a pause.

“You’re a teetotaller too?” I showed a little involuntary astonishment.

He put forward his chin.

“What do you think?” he said confidentially and scornfully.  It was precisely as if he had said:  “Do you think that anybody but a born ass would not be a teetotaller, in my position?”

I sat down on a chair.

“Take th’ squab, mester,” he said, pointing to the sofa.  I took it.

He picked up the candle; then dropped it, and lighted a lamp which was on the mantelpiece between his vases of blue glass.  His movements were very slow, hesitating and clumsy.  Blowing out the candle, which smoked for a long time, he went with the lamp to the bookcase.  As the key of the bookcase was in his right pocket and the lamp in his right hand he had to change the lamp, cautiously, from hand to hand.  When he opened the cupboard I saw a rich gleam of silver from every shelf of it except the lowest, and I could distinguish the forms of ceremonial cups with pedestals and immense handles.