With businesslike brevity Dr. Vandegrift presented her cousin and her credentials to Mr. Knight, who, with a quaint and formal courtesy, was happy to oblige the daughter of an author so distinguished in his chosen field.

Miss Bentley in her turn presented, with suitable gravity, Miss Virginia Brooks, who promised to be quiet as a mouse, and whose eyes betrayed her disappointment on discovering the inside of the Miser’s house to be so much like any other.

After the necessary stir attending upon the finding of the desired volume, and getting settled to work, profound quiet again rested upon the library.  Margaret Elizabeth wrote busily, her book propped upon a small stand before her, while across the room Virginia softly turned the leaves of a huge volume of engravings, pausing now and then to rest her cheek in her palm and regard the Miser steadily for a moment.

The master of the library had the air of having forgotten their presence altogether.  Aided by a microscope, with a grave absorbed face, he studied and compared a series of prints spread before him.  So quiet was it all, that the crackle and purr of the coal fire in the old-fashioned grate made itself quite audible, and the leisurely tick of the clock in the hall marked time solemnly.

Margaret Elizabeth’s interest in Vedantic Philosophy began after a time to wane, and she allowed her attention to wander about the room, from object to object, until it concentrated upon the student himself.  Was he really a miser? she wondered.  He did not look it.  His was rather the face of an ascetic.  Suddenly it flashed into her mind that here was the sad, grey man of that unforgettable conversation in the park.

Virginia slipped down and came to her side.  “Is there really a room full of gold?” she whispered.

Margaret Elizabeth shook her head sternly.  It was time they were going.  Her hand was tired.  She would ask permission to come again.  As she returned her book to the shelf, she displaced a smaller one, a shabby leather-bound book, at which she scarcely glanced, but upon which Virginia seized.

“The Candy Man has one like this,” she said.  “Such a funny name!  See?  Only his is Vol. one and this is Vol. two.”

Miss Bentley cared not at all what strange books the Candy Man owned, and said so, frowning so severely you could scarcely have believed her to be the same person who only a few minutes later was thanking the Miser with such alluring grace of manner.

She was welcome to come when she chose, she was assured, with grave politeness.  His library was at her disposal.

“You have many beautiful things,” said Margaret Elizabeth.  “This portrait above the mantel, for instance, seems to me very interesting.”

The portrait in question was rather a splendid one of a military-looking man probably in his thirties.  One of the best examples of Jouett’s work it was generally considered, Mr. Knight explained, and said to have been an admirable likeness of his uncle, General Waite, at the time it was painted.