RODERICK HUDSON
perceived to be very meagrely furnished and very tenderly and sparingly used. The windows were open to the air of the summer night, and a circle of three persons was temporarily awed into silence by his appearance. One of these was Mrs. Hudson, who was sitting at one of the windows, empty-handed save for the pocket-handkerchief in her lap, which was held with an air of familiarity with its sadder uses. Near her, on the sofa, half-sitting, half-lounging, in the attitude of a visitor outstaying ceremony, with one long leg flung over the other and a large foot in a clumsy boot swinging to and fro continually, was a lean, sandy-haired gentleman whom Rowland recognised as the original of the portrait of Mr. Barnaby Striker. At the table, near the candles, busy with a substantial piece of needle work, sat the young person of whom he had had a moment's quickened glimpse in Roderick's studio and whom he had learned to be Miss Garland, his companion's kinswoman. The limpid penetrating gaze of this member of the group was the most effective greeting he received. Mrs. Hudson rose with a soft, vague sound of distress and stood looking at him shrinkingly and helplessly, as if sorely tempted to retreat through the open window. Mr. Striker swung his long leg a trifle defiantly. No one evidently was used to offering hollow welcomes or telling polite fibs. Rowland introduced himself; he had come, he might say, upon business.
"Yes," said Mrs. Hudson tremulously; "I know—my son has told me. I suppose it 's better I should see you. Perhaps you 'll take a seat."
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