He had an enormous tallowy face, had this person, with an expression so excessively melting that it might have been said to be no expression at all. He could have had no more intimacy with his own skeleton than a hippopotamus. Ages ago he must have left it buried within himself as useless, and turned his wits to balancing on the twin globes of fat that were his legs. His eyes were slits, his nose a wart, his mouth the mere orifice of a blow-pipe. If his neck by any possibility had been broken, one might have stretched it till his head touched the ceiling.
I was conscious of George standing by watching me, and instinctively I dropped a curtsey. Immediately the mountain rumbled, and dusted a chair for my reception. It swung in his vast hand like a signboard from an inn. Relatively, I had some fear of sitting on it; it looked for a moment so like a doll’s.
“Mr. Portlock,” I murmured, casting down my eyes, “I—I am your humble servant, sir.”
He bowed—bagged, would be the better expression. The whole weight of his chin was against his recovery; but he managed it, with an effort.
“You—you are very good to give me shelter,” said I. “I’m afraid we—we shall crowd you dreadfully, sir.”
A low gale vibrated in him somewhere. I seemed to be able to detach certain indistinct utterances from it, of which “welcome: what can do: Maid Marian” were the clearest.
I made an effort to respond fitly—struggled, and was dumb. Then, in a moment—I saw George with his hand to his mouth—the demon exploded in me.
“Were you—were you always like that?” I shrieked, and fell across my chair-back, half hysteric.
The poor fellow may have laughed himself—there was no guessing what emotions that curtain of flesh concealed—but he looked, if anything, more abashed than offended.
“Hush!” said George, recovering himself, “or I must drag you back, miss.”