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The slight sting of Mr. Basset's dismissal was but a wisp of smoke in the bright blaze of their good fortune. Ellen Bernard, usually so composed in her demeanor, felt a rare burst of youthful energy propel her down the steep stairs. But in the hall, she caught herself, remembering her disdain for overt displays of emotion—what she dismissively referred to as "making a fuss."

She paused at the doorway of their sitting room, taking a moment to observe Bernard. His back was to her, his posture weighed down by the recent weeks' invisible burdens. As he turned and saw her, the hopeful query in his eyes cut through her like a knife.

With a flick of her wrist, Ellen released the ten sovereigns onto the table. They landed with a tantalizing clink, announcing a change in their fortunes. "Look there," she whispered, her voice trembling with the vibration of suppressed sobs and elation. "Look there, Bernard!"

Bernard's gaze was heavy with concern, his mind leaping to the grim conclusion that they had begun to sell off their possessions. But before he could voice his fears, Ellen's triumphant cry cut through the air, "We’ve a new lodger!"

The disbelief in Bernard's voice was palpable. "No, never!"

Yet there they stood, united in a shared moment of wonder at the small mountain of gold before them. "But there’s ten sovereigns here," Bernard remarked, his mind trying to piece together this sudden turn of events.

Ellen wiped away the beginning of tears, her emotional dam breaking as she explained their new lodger's terms and demeanor—a gentleman of eccentricities that needed to be indulged and humored.

As she regained her composure, the jarring ring of the drawing-room bell echoed through the house. Bernard, eager to meet the source of their newfound hope, volunteered to attend to their lodger's needs.

Returning with an enigmatic smile, he relayed the lodger's peculiar request: "He's asked me for the loan of a Bible!"

Ellen, taken aback but resolute, saw nothing amiss with the request, especially if the gentleman was feeling out of sorts. "I'll take it up to him," she said, her resolve firm. The simple act of providing a Bible, a beacon of faith and comfort, seemed an easy enough service for a man who had just lifted the pall of despair from their lives.

In the dim light of their modest home, Ellen reached for the large Bible on the small table between the windows. It was a treasured wedding gift, the pages edged with memories and a sense of permanence in their transient world.

Bernard's voice cut through her reflection. "He said the Bible could wait till supper," he remarked, a perplexed furrow creasing his brow. "Ellen, he's an odd one—doesn't fit the mold of the gents I've served."

With a protective fire in her eyes, Ellen snapped, "He is a gentleman, Bernard."

Her husband hesitated, his doubt hanging in the air. "He had no clothes to unpack," he said, a tinge of disbelief in his voice.

"He lost his luggage," Ellen interjected swiftly, her words a shield against any further scrutiny. They both knew the city was full of those who would prey upon a man so vulnerable.

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Bernard nodded, accepting the explanation as Ellen scribbled a shopping list, her stomach reminding her of the hunger they had endured for far too long. Handing him the list with a sovereign, she urged, "Be quick."

As he read the name Basset, Bernard's puzzlement returned. "How d'you spell that? B-a-s-s-o-t?"

Ellen corrected him sharply, "B-a-s-s-e-t," and recalled the lodger's mnemonic: 'Think of a hound.'

At the doorway, Bernard turned back, his face brightening with the thought of repaying their debts. Ellen nodded, her throat tight with emotion.

Once Bernard left, Ellen prepared the lodger's tray with the meticulous care of a seasoned landlady. As she ascended the stairs with the tray and the heavy Bible tucked under her arm, she felt the satisfaction of service well-rendered.

Entering the drawing-room, Ellen was met with a tableau that halted her in her tracks. The Bible tumbled from her grasp as she stared at the turned portraits. The Victorian belles, once the room's pride, now faced the wall, their eyes hidden from the lodger's peculiar discomfort.

"I've... rearranged to my liking," Mr. Basset stammered, an awkwardness enveloping him as he confessed to flipping the images. "Their eyes seemed to follow me. It was unsettling."

Ellen, absorbed in setting the small tablecloth, found herself speechless, unprepared for such an intrusion into her carefully curated space.

After a tense silence, Mr. Basset explained his preference for the austerity of bare walls, revealing a past cloaked in solitude.

"I understand, sir," Ellen finally responded, her voice a steady, calming presence. "Bernard will remove the pictures when he returns. We have ample room for them elsewhere."

"Thank you," Mr. Basset breathed, a visible weight lifting from his shoulders. "Thank you very much."

Ellen, though unsettled by the incident, couldn't help but feel a twist of empathy for this strange, solitary man who found solace in the blankness of walls and the words of scripture.

Ellen Bernard's hands were steady as she presented the Bible to Mr. Basset, its leather cover warmed by her grip. "I believe you requested the good Book, sir?" she inquired, her voice echoing faintly in the heavy silence of the drawing-room.

Mr. Basset seemed to awaken from a trance, his eyes sharpening as they met hers. "Ah, yes," he murmured, a fervor igniting his tone. "There is no reading quite like the Book. It speaks to every condition, every weary soul..."

"Indeed, sir," Ellen agreed, placing the Bible down beside the modest meal she had prepared. With a brisk turn, she closed the door behind her, leaving Mr. Basset to his solitude and scripture.

In the quiet of her own sitting room, Ellen awaited Bernard's return, her thoughts drifting back through the mists of time. She remembered a young artist, Mr. Algernon, whose playful irreverence had once led him to turn a set of Landseer prints to the wall. His aunt had been none too pleased, and yet his whimsy had charmed Ellen in those distant days of her youth.

The memory offered a comforting parallel to Mr. Basset's peculiarities. Though she chose not to share the tale with Bernard, it steadied her resolve; she could manage the removal of the pictures herself.

Ascending the stairs later to tidy up, Ellen paused as she neared the drawing-room. Was that a voice she heard? A chill prickled her skin as she listened to the lodger's reading—his voice carrying a haunting cadence that spoke of treacherous women and paths to the underworld.

Hesitantly, she knocked and entered, her voice a soft intrusion. "Shall I clear away, sir?"

Mr. Basset, closing the Bible with a sense of finality, expressed a wish to retire. "I've had a long and weary day," he confessed, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Once he had withdrawn, Ellen dutifully unhinged the offending portraits from the wall, their absence leaving ghostly squares on the papered surface. With silent steps to avoid alerting Bernard, she stowed the pictures behind her own bed, her mind replaying the ominous words that had spilled from Mr. Basset's lips. Despite the comfort of the gold sovereigns, a new unease settled within her—a creeping suspicion that their lodger's eccentricities might veil darker truths than she cared to admit.