She rang the bell, and a girl appeared.  Yes, Mr. Woodstock was at home.  Ida was told to enter the passage, and wait.

A door at her right hand as she entered was slightly ajar, and voices could be heard from the other side of it.  One of these voices very shortly raised itself in a harsh and angry tone, and Ida could catch what was said.

“Well, Mr. What’s-your-name, I suppose I know my own business rather better than you can teach me.  It’s pretty clear you’ve been doing your best for some time to set the people against me, and I’m damned if I’ll have it!  You go to the place on religious pretences, and what your real object may be I don’t know; but I do know one thing, and that is, I won’t have you hanging about any longer.  I’ll meet you there myself, and if it’s a third-floor window you get pitched out of, well, it won’t be my fault.  Now I don’t want any more talk with you.  This is most folks’ praying-time; I wonder you’re not at it.  It’s my time for writing letters, and I’d rather have your room than your company.  I’m a plain-spoken man, you see, a man of business, and I don’t mince matters.  To come and dictate to me about the state of my houses and of my tenants ain’t a business-like proceeding, and you’ll excuse me if I don’t take it kindly.  There’s the door, and good morning to you!”

The door opened, and a young man, looking pale and dismayed, came out quickly, and at once left the house.  Behind him came the last speaker.  At the sight of the waiting child he stood still, and the expression of his face changed from sour annoyance to annoyed surprise.

“Eh?  Well?” he exclaimed, looking closely at Ida, his eye-brows contracting.

“I have a letter for Mr. Abra’m Woodstock, sir.”

“Well, give it here.  Who’s it from?”

“Mrs. Starr, sir.”

“Who’s Mrs. Starr?  Come in here, will you?”

His short and somewhat angry tone was evidently in some degree the result of the interview that had just closed, but also pretty clearly an indication of his general manner to strangers.  He let the child pass him, and followed her into the room with the letter in his hand.  He did not seem able to remove his eyes from her face.  Ida, on her side, did not dare to look up at him.  He was a massively built, grey-headed man of something more than sixty.  Everything about him expressed strength and determination, power alike of body and mind.  His features were large and heavy, but the forehead would have become a man of strong intellect; the eyes were full of astonishing vital force, and the chin was a physiognomical study, so strikingly did its moulding express energy of character.  He was clean-shaven, and scarcely a seam or wrinkle anywhere broke the hard, smooth surface of his visage, its complexion clear and rosy as that of a child.

Still regarding Ida, he tore open the envelope.  At the sight of the writing he, not exactly started, but moved his head rather suddenly, and again turned his eyes upon the messenger.