When I was ushered into the drawing-room I found that Mrs.
Strickland had a visitor, and when I discovered who he was,
I guessed that I had been asked to come at just that time not
without intention. The caller was Mr. Van Busche Taylor,
an American, and Mrs. Strickland gave me particulars with a
charming smile of apology to him.
"You know, we English are so dreadfully ignorant. You must
forgive me if it's necessary to explain." Then she turned to
me. "Mr. Van Busche Taylor is the distinguished American
critic. If you haven't read his book your education has been
shamefully neglected, and you must repair the omission at
once. He's writing something about dear Charlie, and he's
come to ask me if I can help him."
Mr. Van Busche Taylor was a very thin man with a large, bald
head, bony and shining; and under the great dome of his skull
his face, yellow, with deep lines in it, looked very small.
He was quiet and exceedingly polite. He spoke with the accent
of New England, and there was about his demeanour a bloodless
frigidity which made me ask myself why on earth he was busying
himself with Charles Strickland.
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