CHAPTER IX: CONCERNING LOVE.
"Your kinsman doesn't much care for beautiful building, then," said I, as we entered the rather dreary classical house; which indeed was as bare as need be, except for some big pots of the June flowers which stood about here and there; though it was very clean and nicely whitewashed.
"O I don't know," said Dick, rather absently.

"He is getting old, certainly, for he is over a hundred and five, and no doubt he doesn't care about moving.

But of course he could live in a prettier house if he liked: he is not obliged to live in one place any more than any one else.
This way, Guest." And he led the way upstairs, and opening a door we went into a fair-sized room of the old type, as plain as the rest of the house, with a few necessary pieces of furniture, and those very simple and even rude, but solid and with a good deal of carving about them, well designed but rather crudely executed.

At the furthest corner of the room, at a desk near the window, sat a little old man in a roomy oak chair, well becushioned.

He was dressed in a sort of Norfolk jacket of blue serge worn threadbare, with breeches of the same, and grey worsted stockings.
He jumped up from his chair, and cried out in a voice of considerable volume for such an old man, "Welcome, Dick, my lad; Clara is here, and will be more than glad to see you; so keep your heart up." "Clara here ?" quoth Dick; "if I had known, I would not have brought--At least, I mean I would--" He was stuttering and confused, clearly because he was anxious to say nothing to make me feel one too many.