Victoria, thinking that the situation would be less awkward, accepted the invitation, and Euphrasia shut the door.  The hall, owing to the fact that the shutters of the windows by the stairs were always closed, was in semidarkness.  Victoria longed to let in the light, to take this strange, dried-up housekeeper and shake her into some semblance of natural feeling.  And this was Austen’s home!  It was to this house, made gloomy by these people, that he had returned every night!  Infinitely depressed, she felt that she must take some action, or cry aloud.

“Mr. Vane,” she said, laying a hand upon his shoulder, “I think you ought, at least, to lie down for a little while.  Isn’t there a sofa in —­in the parlour?” she asked Euphrasia.

“You can’t get him to do anything,” Euphrasia replied, with decision; “he’ll die some day for want of a little common sense.  I shouldn’t wonder if he was took on soon.”

“Oh!” cried Victoria.  She could think of no words to answer this remark.

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” Euphrasia continued.  “He fell down the stairs here not long ago, and went right on about his business.  He’s never paid any attention to anybody, and I guess it’s a mite late to expect him to begin now.  Won’t you set down?”

There was another chair against the low wainscoting, and Victoria drew it over beside Hilary and sat down in it.  He did not seem to notice the action, and Euphrasia continued to stand.  Standing seemed to be the natural posture of this remarkable woman, Victoria thought—­a posture of vigilance, of defiance.  A clock of one of the Austen grandfathers stood obscurely at the back of the hall, and the measured swing of its pendulum was all that broke the silence.  This was Austen’s home.  It seemed impossible for her to realize that he could be the product of this environment—­until a portrait on the opposite wall, above the stairs, came out of the gloom and caught her eye like the glow of light.  At first, becoming aware of it with a start, she thought it a likeness of Austen himself.  Then she saw that the hair was longer, and more wavy than his, and fell down a little over the velvet collar of a coat with a wide lapel and brass buttons, and that the original of this portrait had worn a stock.  The face had not quite the strength of Austen’s, she thought, but a wondrous sweetness and intellect shone from it, like an expression she had seen on his face.  The chin rested on the hand, an intellectual hand,—­and the portrait brought to her mind that of a young English statesman she had seen in the National Gallery in London.

“That’s Channing Austen,—­he was minister to Spain.”

Victoria started.  It was Euphrasia who was speaking, and unmistakable pride was in her voice.

Fortunately for Victoria, who would not in the least have known what to reply, steps were heard on the porch, and Euphrasia opened the door.  Mr. Rangely had returned.