Mr. Tyson took it differently.

“Look here!”—­he said peremptorily to Mrs. Dixon—­“you mind what you’re doing with that table.  It’s worth a mint of money.”

The Dixons looked at it curiously, but coldly.  To them it was nothing but a writing-table with drawers made out of a highly polished outlandish wood, with little devices of gilt rails, and drawer-furnishings, and tiny figures, and little bits of china “let in,” which might easily catch a duster, thought Mrs. Dixon, and “mak’ trooble.”  That it had belonged to a French dramatist under Louis Quinze, and then to a French Queen; that the plaques were Sevres, and the table as a whole beyond the purse of any but a South African or American man of money, was of course nothing to her.

“It bets me,” said Dixon, in the tone of one making conversation, “why Muster Melrose didn’t gie us orders to unpack soom more o’ them cases.  Summat like thatten”—­he pointed to the table—­“wud ha’ lukit fine i’ the drawin’-room.”

Tyson made no reply.  He was a young man of strong will and taciturn habit; and he fully realized that if he once began discussing with Dixon the various orders received from Mr. Edmund Melrose with regard to his home-coming, during the preceding weeks, the position that he, Tyson, intended to maintain with regard to that gentleman would not be made any easier.  If you happened by mischance to have accepted an appointment to serve and represent a lunatic, and you discovered that you had done so, there were only two things to do, either to hold on, or “to chuck it.”  But George Tyson, whose father and grandfather had been small land agents before him, of the silent, honest, tenacious Cumbria sort, belonged to a stock which had never resigned anything, till at least the next step was clear; and the young man had no intention whatever of “chucking it.”  But to hold on certainly meant patience, and as few words as might be.

So he only stopped to give one more anxious look round the table to see that no scratches had befallen it in the process of unpacking, gave orders to Mrs. Dixon to light yet another fire in the room, which struck exceedingly chill, and then left them for a final tour round the ground-floor, heaping on coals everywhere with a generous hand.  On this point alone—­the point of warmth—­had Mr. Melrose’s letters shown a disposition to part with money, in ordinary domestic way.  “The odiousness of your English climate is only matched by the absurdity of your English grates,” he had written, urbanely, from Paris.  “Get the house up to sixty, if you can.  And get a man over from Carlisle to put in a furnace.  I can see him the day after we arrive.  My wife is Italian, and shivers already at the thought of Cumbria.”

Sixty indeed!  In this dank rain from the northeast, and on this high ground, not a passage in the house could be got above forty-six; and the sitting-rooms were alternately stifling and vaultlike.