The appearance of Cockle Hall was, indeed, as his mother had very properly informed him, ludicrous in the extreme.  It was built on a surface hollowed out of a high bank, or elevation, with which the roof of it was on a level.  It was, of course, circular and flat, and the roof drooped, or slanted off towards the rear, precisely in imitation of a cockle-shell.  There was, however, a complete deceptio visus in it.  To the eye, in consequence of the peculiarity of its position, it appeared to be very low, which, in point of fact, was not exactly the case, for it consisted of two stories, and had comfortable and extensive apartments”.  There was a paved space wide enough for two carriages to pass each other, which separated it from the embankment that surrounded it.  Altogether, when taken in connection with the original idea of its construction, it was a difficult thing to look at it without mirth.  On entering the drawing-room, which Harry did alone—­for his mother, having seen Miss Riddle in the parlor, entered it in order to have a preliminary chat with her—­her son found a person inside dressed in a pair of red plush breeches, white stockings a good deal soiled, a yellow long-flapped waistcoat, and a wig, with a cue to it which extended down the whole length of his back,—­evidently a servant in dirty lively.  There was something degagee and rather impudent in his manner and appearance, which Harry considered as in good keeping with all he had heard of this eccentric nobleman.  Like master like man, thought he.

“Well,” said the servant, looking hardly at him, “what do you want?”

“You be cursed,” replied Harry; “don’t be impertinent; do you think I’m about to disclose my business to you, you despicable menial?  Why don’t you get your stockings washed?  But if you wish to know what I want, I want your master.”

The butler, footman, or whatever he might hive been, fixed a keen look upon him, accompanied by a grin of derision that made the visitor’s gorge rise a good deal.

“My master,” said the other, “is not under this roof.  What do you think of that?”

“You mean the old cockle is not in his shell, then,” replied Harry.

“Come,” said the other, with a chuckle of enjoyment, “curse me, but that’s good.  Who are you?—­what are you?  You are in good feathers—­only give an account of yourself.”

Harry was a keen observer, but was considerably aided by what he had heard from his mother.  The rich rings, however, which he saw sparkling on the fingers of what he had conceived to be the butler or footman, at once satisfied him that he was then addressing the worthy nobleman himself.  In the meantime, having made this discovery, he resolved to act the farce out.

“Why should I give an account of myself to you, you cursed old sot?—­you drink, sirrah:  I can read it in your face.”

“I say, give an account of yourself; what’s your business here?”