“See who it is, and don’t chew when you open it!” cries Judy.

The object of her attentions withdrawing for the purpose, Miss Smallweed takes that opportunity of jumbling the remainder of the bread and butter together and launching two or three dirty tea-cups into the ebb-tide of the basin of tea as a hint that she considers the eating and drinking terminated.

“Now!  Who is it, and what’s wanted?” says the snappish Judy.

It is one Mr. George, it appears.  Without other announcement or ceremony, Mr. George walks in.

“Whew!” says Mr. George.  “You are hot here.  Always a fire, eh?  Well!  Perhaps you do right to get used to one.”  Mr. George makes the latter remark to himself as he nods to Grandfather Smallweed.

“Ho!  It’s you!” cries the old gentleman.  “How de do?  How de do?”

“Middling,” replies Mr. George, taking a chair.  “Your granddaughter I have had the honour of seeing before; my service to you, miss.”

“This is my grandson,” says Grandfather Smallweed.  “You ha’n’t seen him before.  He is in the law and not much at home.”

“My service to him, too!  He is like his sister.  He is very like his sister.  He is devilish like his sister,” says Mr. George, laying a great and not altogether complimentary stress on his last adjective.

“And how does the world use you, Mr. George?” Grandfather Smallweed inquires, slowly rubbing his legs.

“Pretty much as usual.  Like a football.”

He is a swarthy brown man of fifty, well made, and good looking, with crisp dark hair, bright eyes, and a broad chest.  His sinewy and powerful hands, as sunburnt as his face, have evidently been used to a pretty rough life.  What is curious about him is that he sits forward on his chair as if he were, from long habit, allowing space for some dress or accoutrements that he has altogether laid aside.  His step too is measured and heavy and would go well with a weighty clash and jingle of spurs.  He is close-shaved now, but his mouth is set as if his upper lip had been for years familiar with a great moustache; and his manner of occasionally laying the open palm of his broad brown hand upon it is to the same effect.  Altogether one might guess Mr. George to have been a trooper once upon a time.

A special contrast Mr. George makes to the Smallweed family.  Trooper was never yet billeted upon a household more unlike him.  It is a broadsword to an oyster-knife.  His developed figure and their stunted forms, his large manner filling any amount of room and their little narrow pinched ways, his sounding voice and their sharp spare tones, are in the strongest and the strangest opposition.  As he sits in the middle of the grim parlour, leaning a little forward, with his hands upon his thighs and his elbows squared, he looks as though, if he remained there long, he would absorb into himself the whole family and the whole four-roomed house, extra little back-kitchen and all.