At the little country town of West Brockley, Miss Hart alighted.  She had brought all her luggage in a small handbag, and now she walked to her destination.  It was in the outskirts of the little town, and amongst a row of poor houses.  She stopped at one of these, and entered by the open door.  A woman met her in the passage.

“Is Mr. Hart within?”

“I don’t know, madam, I’ll inquire.”

“No, don’t do that.  I’ll go to him myself.  He’s at the top of the house, of course, as usual?”

“Why, as usual, madam?  Mr. Hart has never been my lodger before.”

“I know his ways.  He invariably seeks the top.”

“From no prejudice, madam.  He seems a very quiet gentleman.”

“Exactly.  Treasure him, he is a valuable lodger.  Now let me pass, please.  I am going to seek him.”

“Perhaps I had better tell him first, young lady.”

“I am his grandchild.  It is all right.  Let me pass.”

She brushed the woman aside, and flew lightly up the stairs.  She knocked at the door of the top attic, but followed her knock into the room before any one had made response from within.

Old Hart was, as usual, messing over some cooking.  He stopped it when he saw Josephine, and an iron spoon which he held in his hand clattered noisily to the floor.

“Now, Nina, what is the matter?”

“I am going to spend the day with you, Granddad, and probably the night as well.  You can give me a bed in a corner of this delightful sitting-room.  Is that breakfast?  I wish you would serve it up; I am starving.”

“It’s a very good breakfast, little Nina.  Fried rabbit, done after a new method.  Bacon and eggs to follow, with a sauce of port wine.  Olives and sour claret for dessert.  I know your taste, witch.”

“I love olives,” said Nina.  “Sit at the table, Grand-dad, and let us begin.  By the way, when did you shave last?”

“Ha—­ha, who have I to shave for now, my pretty Nina?  Nobody cares for the old man, nobody looks at him with eyes of admiration.  Why should he waste his money and his time over the barbarous rite of shaving?  Nature has her way with the old man now, sweet witch.”

“Nature doesn’t improve you, Grand-dad.  You require the refining touches of art.  Your beard is unkempt, your hair too long.  You shall visit the barber after we have concluded our meal.  It is distressing to mankind in general to behold a spectacle like you.  You owe a duty to the world at large.  You must visit the barber.”

“Chut—­chut!  What a witch it is!  Why didn’t it stay at home, and not worry the old man?”

“Serve up the breakfast, Grand-dad, and believe in the salutary nature of your granddaughter’s visitations.”

The two sat down to their meal, and both ate for a time in unbroken silence.  After his third glass of sour claret, the old man spoke: 

“How are you, Nina?  You don’t look up to much?”