“He’s in the bottom garden,” said I, and the child ran out.
Directly George came in from the scullery, drying himself. He stood on the hearthrug as he rubbed himself, and surveyed his reflection in the mirror above the high mantelpiece; he looked at himself and smiled. I wondered that he found such satisfaction in his image, seeing that there was a gap in his chin, and an uncertain moth-eaten appearance in one cheek. Mrs. Saxton still held this mirror an object of dignity; it was fairly large, and had a well-carven frame; but it left gaps and spots and scratches in one’s countenance, and even where it was brightest, it gave one’s reflection a far-away dim aspect. Notwithstanding, George smiled at himself as he combed his hair, and twisted his moustache.
“You seem to make a good impression on yourself,” said I.
“I was thinking I looked all right—sort of face to go courting with,” he replied, laughing: “You just arrange a patch of black to come and hide your faults—and you’re all right.”
“I always used to think,” said Emily, “that the black spots had swallowed so many faces they were full up, and couldn’t take any more—and the rest was misty because there were so many faces lapped one over the other—reflected.”
“You do see yourself a bit ghostish——” said he, “on a background of your ancestors. I always think when you stop in an old place like this you sort of keep company with your ancestors too much; I sometimes feel like a bit of the old building walking about; the old feelings of the old folks stick to you like the lichens on the walls; you sort of get hoary.”
“That’s it—it’s true,” asserted the father, “people whose families have shifted about much don’t know how it feels. That’s why I’m going to Canada.”
“And I’m going in a Pub,” said George, “where it’s quite different—plenty of life.”
“Life!” echoed Emily with contempt.
“That’s the word, my wench,” replied her brother, lapsing into the dialect. “That’s what I’m after. We known such a lot, an’ we known nöwt.”