There were no visitors about when I arrived, and I thought I would have the coffeeroom all to myself at luncheon-time; but presently there came in a pleasant-faced old gentleman in knickerbockers.  He bowed to me and then took a place at the table.  He said that it was a fine day and I agreed with him, adding that the mountains were very beautiful.  He assented, putting in a codicil to the effect that the lake was very pretty.

Then the waiter came for our orders.

“Together, I s’pose?” remarked Thomas, inquiringly, as he halted at the door and balanced the tray on his finger-tips.

“Yes, serve lunch for us together,” said the ruddy old gentleman as he looked at me and smiled; “to eat alone is bad for the digestion.”

I nodded assent.

“Can you tell me how far it is to Brantwood?” I asked.

“Oh, not far—­just across the lake.”

He arose and flung the shutter open so I could see the old, yellow house about a mile across the water, nestling in its wealth of green on the hillside.  Soon the waiter brought our lunch, and while we discussed the chops and new potatoes we talked Ruskiniana.

The old gentleman knew a deal more of “Stones of Venice” and “Modern Painters” than I; but I told him how Thoreau introduced Ruskin to America and how Concord was the first place in the New World to recognize this star in the East.  And upon my saying this, the old gentleman brought his knife-handle down on the table, declaring that Thoreau and Whitman were the only two men of genius that America had produced.  I begged him to make it three and include Emerson, which he finally consented to do.

By and by the waiter cleared the table preparatory to bringing in the coffee.  The old gentleman pushed his chair back, took the napkin from under his double chin, brushed the crumbs from his goodly front, and remarked: 

“I’m going over to Brantwood this afternoon to call on Mr. Ruskin—­just to pay my respects to him, as I always do when I come here.  Can’t you go with me?”

I think this was about the most pleasing question I ever had asked me.  I was going to request him to “come again” just for the joy of hearing the words, but I pulled my dignity together, straightened up, swallowed my coffee red-hot, pushed my chair back, flourished my napkin, and said, “I shall be very pleased to go.”

So we went—­we two—­he in his knickerbockers and I in my checks and outing-shirt.  I congratulated myself on looking no worse than he, and as for him, he never seemed to think that our costumes were not exactly what they should be; and after all it matters little how you dress when you call on one of Nature’s noblemen—­they demand no livery.

We walked around the northern end of Coniston Water, along the eastern edge, past Tent House, where Tennyson once lived (and found it “outrageous quiet"), and a mile farther on we came to Brantwood.