“Read it, my dear Watt,” says the housekeeper.

Rosa is so shy as she gives it to him that they drop it between them and almost knock their foreheads together as they pick it up.  Rosa is shyer than before.

“Mr. Guppy” is all the information the card yields.

“Guppy!” repeats Mrs. Rouncewell, “Mr. Guppy!  Nonsense, I never heard of him!”

“If you please, he told me that!” says Rosa.  “But he said that he and the other young gentleman came from London only last night by the mail, on business at the magistrates’ meeting, ten miles off, this morning, and that as their business was soon over, and they had heard a great deal said of Chesney Wold, and really didn’t know what to do with themselves, they had come through the wet to see it.  They are lawyers.  He says he is not in Mr. Tulkinghorn’s office, but he is sure he may make use of Mr. Tulkinghorn’s name if necessary.”  Finding, now she leaves off, that she has been making quite a long speech, Rosa is shyer than ever.

Now, Mr. Tulkinghorn is, in a manner, part and parcel of the place, and besides, is supposed to have made Mrs. Rouncewell’s will.  The old lady relaxes, consents to the admission of the visitors as a favour, and dismisses Rosa.  The grandson, however, being smitten by a sudden wish to see the house himself, proposes to join the party.  The grandmother, who is pleased that he should have that interest, accompanies him—­though to do him justice, he is exceedingly unwilling to trouble her.

“Much obliged to you, ma’am!” says Mr. Guppy, divesting himself of his wet dreadnought in the hall.  “Us London lawyers don’t often get an out, and when we do, we like to make the most of it, you know.”

The old housekeeper, with a gracious severity of deportment, waves her hand towards the great staircase.  Mr. Guppy and his friend follow Rosa; Mrs. Rouncewell and her grandson follow them; a young gardener goes before to open the shutters.

As is usually the case with people who go over houses, Mr. Guppy and his friend are dead beat before they have well begun.  They straggle about in wrong places, look at wrong things, don’t care for the right things, gape when more rooms are opened, exhibit profound depression of spirits, and are clearly knocked up.  In each successive chamber that they enter, Mrs. Rouncewell, who is as upright as the house itself, rests apart in a window-seat or other such nook and listens with stately approval to Rosa’s exposition.  Her grandson is so attentive to it that Rosa is shyer than ever—­ and prettier.  Thus they pass on from room to room, raising the pictured Dedlocks for a few brief minutes as the young gardener admits the light, and reconsigning them to their graves as he shuts it out again.  It appears to the afflicted Mr. Guppy and his inconsolable friend that there is no end to the Dedlocks, whose family greatness seems to consist in their never having done anything to distinguish themselves for seven hundred years.