He passed into a large room, magnificently lighted by the sunshine, but very simply furnished.  A small round table, two or three chairs and a piano were lost on the great floor, which had no carpeting, only a small Indian rug being displayed as a thing of beauty, in the very middle.  There were no pictures, but here and there, to break the surface of the wall, strips of bright-coloured material were hung from the cornice.  At the table, next the window, sat a man writing, also, as his lips showed, whistling a tune; and on the bare boards beside him sat a young woman with her baby on her lap, another child, of two or three years old, amusing itself by pulling her dishevelled hair.

“Here’s your brother, Mr. Otw’y,” yelled the little servant.  “Give that baby to me, mum.  I know what’ll quoiet him, bless his little heart.”

Alexander sprang up, waving his arm in welcome.  He was a stoutish man of middle height, with thick curly auburn hair, and a full beard; geniality beamed from his blue eyes.

“Is it yourself, Piers?” he shouted, with utterance suggestive of the Emerald Isle, though the man was so loudly English.  “It does me good to set eyes on you, upon my soul, it does!  I knew you’d come.  Didn’t I say he’d come, Biddy?—­Piers, this is my wife, Bridget the best wife living in all the four quarters of the world!”

Mrs. Otway had risen, and stood smiling, the picture of cordiality.  She was not a beauty, though the black hair broad-flung over her shoulders made no common adornment; but her round, healthy face, with its merry eyes and gleaming teeth, had an honest attractiveness, and her soft Irish tongue went to the heart.  It never occurred to her to apologise for the disorderly state of things.  Having got rid of her fractious baby—­not without a kiss —­she took the other child by the hand and with pride presented “My daughter Leonora”—­a name which gave Piers a little shock of astonishment.

“Sit down, Piers,” shouted her husband.  “First we’ll have tea and talk; then we’ll have talk and tobacco; then we’ll have dinner and talk again, and after that whatever the gods please to send us.  My day’s work is done—­ecce signum!”

He pointed to the slips of manuscript from which he had risen.  Alexander had begun life as a medical student, but never got so far as a diploma.  In many capacities, often humble but never disgraceful, he had wandered over Broader Britain—­drifting at length, as he was bound to do, into irregular journalism.

“And how’s the old man at home?” he asked, whilst Mrs. Otway busied herself in getting tea.  “Piers, it’s the sorrow of my life that he hasn’t a good opinion of me.  I don’t say I deserve it, but, as I live, I’ve always meant to And I admire him, Piers.  I’ve written about him; and I sent him the article, but he didn’t acknowledge it.  How does he bear his years, the old Trojan?  And how does his wife use him?  Ah, that was a mistake, Piers; that was