No dogs barked at our approach--no doors banged
in the servants' offices--no heads peeped over the banisters--not
one of the ordinary domestic consequences of an unexpected visit
in the country met either eye or ear. The large shadowy
apartment, half library, half breakfast-room, into which we were
ushered, was as solitary as the hall of entrance; unless I except
such drowsy evidences of life as were here presented to us in the
shape of an Angola cat and a gray parrot--the first lying asleep
in a chair, the second sitting ancient, solemn, and voiceless, in
a large cage.
Mr. Garthwaite walked to the window when we entered, without
saying a word. Determining to let his taciturn humor have its
way, I asked him no questions, but looked around the room to see
what information it would give me (and rooms often do give such
information) about the character and habits of the owner of the
house.
Two tables covered with books were the first objects that
attracted me. On approaching them, I was surprised to find that
the all-influencing periodical literature of the present
day--whose sphere is already almost without limit; whose readers,
even in our time, may be numbered by millions--was entirely
unrepresented on Miss Welwyn's table. Nothing modern, nothing
contemporary, in the world of books, presented itself. Of all the
volumes beneath my hand, not one bore the badge of the
circulating library, or wore the flaring modern livery of gilt
cloth.
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