“Certainly

“Certainly,” said George, half aloud. “Father Time himself. This is where he lives, Sophie.”
“We came,” said Sophie weakly. “Can we see the house? I’m afraid that’s our dog.”
“No, ’tis Rambler,” said the old man. “He’s been, at my swill-pail again. Staying at Rocketts, be ye? Come in. Ah! you runagate!”
The hound broke from him, and he tottered after him down the drive. They entered the hall — just such a high light hall as such a house should own. A slim-balustered staircase, wide and shallow and once creamy-white, climbed out of it under a long oval window. On either side delicately moulded doors gave on to wool-lumbered rooms, whose sea-green mantelpieces were adorned with nymphs, scrolls, and Cupids in low relief.
“What’s the firm that makes these things?” cried Sophie, enraptured. “Oh, I forgot! These must be the originals. Adams, is it? I never dreamed of anything like that steel-cut fender. Does he mean us to go everywhere?”
“He’s catching the dog,” said George, looking out. “We don’t count.”
They explored the first or ground floor, delighted as children playing burglars.
“This is like all England,” she said at last. “Wonderful, but no explanation. You’re expected to know it beforehand. Now, let’s try upstairs.”
The stairs never creaked beneath their feet. From the broad landing they entered a long, green-panelled room lighted by three full-length windows, which overlooked the forlorn wreck of a terraced garden, and wooded slopes beyond.
“The drawing-room, of course.” Sophie swam up and down it. “That mantelpiece — Orpheus and Eurydice — is the best of them all. Isn’t it marvellous? Why, the room seems furnished with nothing in it! How’s that, George?”
“It’s the proportions. I’ve noticed it.”
“I saw a Heppelwhite couch once”— Sophie laid her finger to her flushed cheek and considered. “With, two of them — one on each side — you wouldn’t need anything else. Except — there must be one perfect mirror over that mantelpiece.”
“Look at that view. It’s a framed Constable,” her husband cried.
“No; it’s a Morland — a parody of a Morland. But about that couch, George. Don’t you think Empire might be better than Heppelwhite? Dull gold against that pale green? It’s a pity they don’t make spinets nowadays.”
“I believe you can get them. Look at that oak wood behind the pines.”
“‘While you sat and played toccatas stately, at the clavichord,”’ Sophie hummed, and, head on one; side, nodded to where the perfect mirror should hang:
Then they found bedrooms with dressing-rooms and powdering-closets, and steps leading up and down — boxes of rooms, round, square, and octagonal, with enriched ceilings and chased door-locks.
“Now about servants. Oh!” She had darted up the last stairs to the chequered darkness of the top floor, where loose tiles lay among broken laths, and the walls were scrawled with names, sentiments, and hop records. “They’ve been keeping pigeons here,” she cried.
“And you could drive a buggy through the roof anywhere,” said George.
“That’s what I say,” the old man cried below them on the stairs. “Not a dry place for my pigeons at all.”