But let us go downstairs also.

CHAPTER III.

Breakfast was laid in the “Chinese room,” a room which formed part of the stately “garden front,” added to the original structure of the house in the eighteenth century by a Boyce whose wife had money.  The decorations, especially of the domed and vaulted roof, were supposed by their eighteenth century designer to be “Oriental”; they were, at any rate, intricate and overladen; and the figures of mandarins on the worn and discoloured wall-paper had, at least, top-knots, pigtails, and petticoats to distinguish them from the ordinary Englishmen of 1760, besides a charming mellowness of colour and general effect bestowed on them by time and dilapidation.  The marble mantelpiece was elaborately carved in Chinamen and pagodas.  There were Chinese curiosities of a miscellaneous kind on the tables, and the beautiful remains of an Indian carpet underfoot.  Unluckily, some later Boyce had thrust a crudely Gothic sideboard, with an arched and pillared front, adapted to the purposes of a warming apparatus, into the midst of the mandarins, which disturbed the general effect.  But with all its original absurdities, and its modern defacements, the room was a beautiful and stately one.  Marcella stepped into it with a slight unconscious straightening of her tall form.  It seemed to her that she had never breathed easily till now, in the ample space of these rooms and gardens.

Her father and mother were already at table, together with Mrs. Boyce’s brown spaniel Lynn.

Mr. Boyce was employed in ordering about the tall boy in a worn and greasy livery coat, who represented the men-service of the establishment; his wife was talking to her dog, but from the lift of her eyebrows, and the twitching of her thin lips, it was plain to Marcella that her mother was as usual of opinion that her father was behaving foolishly.

“There, for goodness’ sake, cut some bread on the sideboard,” said the angry master, “and hand it round instead of staring about you like a stuck pig.  What they taught you at Sir William Jute’s I can’t conceive. I didn’t undertake to make a man-servant of you, sir.”

The pale, harassed lad flew at the bread, cut it with a vast scattering of crumbs, handed it clumsily round, and then took glad advantage of a short supply of coffee to bolt from the room to order more.

“Idiot!” said Mr. Boyce, with an angry frown, as he disappeared.

“If you would allow Ann to do her proper parlour work again,” said his wife blandly, “you would, I think, be less annoyed.  And as I believe William was boot boy at the Jutes’, it is not surprising that he did not learn waiting.”

“I tell you, Evelyn, that our position demands a man-servant!” was the hot reply.  “None of my family have ever attempted to run this house with women only.  It would be unseemly—­unfitting—­incon—­”