It was a shabby house, badly needing a coat of paint, but with the dignity of its period, in a little street between Chancery Lane and Holborn, which had once been fashionable but was now little better than a slum: there was a plan to pull it down in order to put up handsome offices; meanwhile the rents were small, and Athelny was able to get the two upper floors at a price which suited his income.
Philip had not seen him up before and was surprised at his small size; he was not more than five feet and five inches high.
He was dressed fantastically in blue linen trousers of the sort worn by working men in France, and a very old brown velvet coat; he wore a bright red sash round his waist, a low collar, and for tie a flowing bow of the kind used by the comic Frenchman in the pages of Punch.
He greeted Philip with enthusiasm.
He began talking at once of the house and passed his hand lovingly over the balusters.
"Look at it, feel it, it's like silk.
What a miracle of grace!
And in five years the house-breaker will sell it for firewood."
He insisted on taking Philip into a room on the first floor, where a man in shirt sleeves, a blousy woman, and three children were having their Sunday dinner.
"I've just brought this gentleman in to show him your ceiling. Did you ever see anything so wonderful?
How are you, Mrs. Hodgson?
This is Mr. Carey, who looked after me when I was in the hospital."
"Come in, sir," said the man.
"Any friend of Mr. Athelny's is welcome.
Mr. Athelny shows the ceiling to all his friends.
And it don't matter what we're doing, if we're in bed or if I'm 'aving a wash, in 'e comes."
Philip could see that they looked upon Athelny as a little queer; but they liked him none the less and they listened open-mouthed while he discoursed with his impetuous fluency on the beauty of the seventeenth-century ceiling.
"What a crime to pull this down, eh, Hodgson?
You're an influential citizen, why don't you write to the papers and protest?"
The man in shirt sleeves gave a laugh and said to Philip:
"Mr. Athelny will 'ave his little joke.
They do say these 'ouses are that insanitory, it's not safe to live in them."
"Sanitation be damned, give me art," cried Athelny.
"I've got nine children and they thrive on bad drains.
No, no, I'm not going to take any risk.
None of your new-fangled notions for me! When I move from here I'm going to make sure the drains are bad before I take anything."
There was a knock at the door, and a little fair-haired girl opened it.
"Daddy, mummy says, do stop talking and come and eat your dinner."
"This is my third daughter," said Athelny, pointing to her with a dramatic forefinger. "She is called Maria del Pilar, but she answers more willingly to the name of Jane.
Jane, your nose wants blowing."
"I haven't got a hanky, daddy."
"Tut, tut, child," he answered, as he produced a vast, brilliant bandanna, "what do you suppose the Almighty gave you fingers for?"
They went upstairs, and Philip was taken into a room with walls panelled in dark oak.
In the middle was a narrow table of teak on trestle legs, with two supporting bars of iron, of the kind called in Spain mesa de hieraje.
They were to dine there, for two places were laid, and there were two large arm-chairs, with broad flat arms of oak and leathern backs, and leathern seats.
They were severe, elegant, and uncomfortable.
The only other piece of furniture was a bargueno, elaborately ornamented with gilt iron-work, on a stand of ecclesiastical design roughly but very finely carved.
There stood on this two or three lustre plates, much broken but rich in colour; and on the walls were old masters of the Spanish school in beautiful though dilapidated frames: though gruesome in subject, ruined by age and bad treatment, and second-rate in their conception, they had a glow of passion.
There was nothing in the room of any value, but the effect was lovely.
It was magnificent and yet austere.
Philip felt that it offered the very spirit of old Spain.
Athelny was in the middle of showing him the inside of the bargueno, with its beautiful ornamentation and secret drawers, when a tall girl, with two plaits of bright brown hair hanging down her back, came in.
"Mother says dinner's ready and waiting and I'm to bring it in as soon as you sit down."
"Come and shake hands with Mr. Carey, Sally." He turned to Philip. "Isn't she enormous?
She's my eldest.
How old are you, Sally?"
"Fifteen, father, come next June."
"I christened her Maria del Sol, because she was my first child and I dedicated her to the glorious sun of Castile; but her mother calls her Sally and her brother Pudding-Face."
The girl smiled shyly, she had even, white teeth, and blushed.
She was well set-up, tall for her age, with pleasant gray eyes and a broad forehead. She had red cheeks.