The room was very bare, so as to give space for the collection. Mr. Ireland sat at a mahogany desk in the center, which was placed on a square of carpet. Beside this desk stood a chair, and in one corner of the room was a safe painted green. Other furniture there was none, and what with the huge pictures, the bare floor, and the want of curtains to the windows the effect was comfortless and dreary, but Mr. Ireland did not seem to mind in the least.
He was a tall old man with rather long white hair and a clean-shaven, benign face. His unusual height did away with the impression of his excessive stoutness, for he appeared to be as fat as Daniel Lambert. George often wondered at his size, considering that the man ate comparatively little. Mr. Ireland was dressed in glossy broadcloth scrupulously brushed, and wore an old-fashioned Gladstone collar. He had mild blue eyes, rather watery, and a large mouth with full red lips. This hint of sensuality was contradicted by the serenity and pallor of his face, and by his life, which was as correct as his dress and as methodical as his hours.
Never was there so methodical a man. He lived by the clock, and with him one day exactly resembled another. He rose at a certain hour and retired precisely when the hand on the clock indicated another. His meals were always regular, and he had stated hours for walking, when he went out, whether it was wet or fine, sunny or foggy. The man was like a machine, and George, when living with him in his early days, had often found these restrictions irksome. It was one o'clock when Brendon called, and Mr. Ireland had just finished his luncheon. At two precisely he would leave the house for his one hour's constitutional. Brendon was aware of this, and had timed his visit accordingly. Nevertheless, Ireland looked at his watch and mentioned the fact.
"I can only give you an hour, George," he said. "You know my habits."
"An hour will be sufficient," replied Brendon, taking the one chair. "You are not looking very well, sir," he added, noting the fagged air of the old man.
"I have not been sleeping so soundly as usual," rejoined Ireland, producing a box of cigars and passing them. "At my age, and I am now seventy-five, I can't be expected to enjoy my bed so much as a young person. Take a cigar."
"The old brand," said Brendon, selecting one.
"I never vary," replied his guardian, gravely. "Pass that matchbox, George. Have you a light? Good. Now we can talk for the next fifty-five minutes. What is it?"
As time was short, and Mr. Ireland would be sure to terminate the interview exactly at the stated hour, George plunged immediately into the business which had brought him hither. "I wish to hear the story of my parents," he said deliberately.
The cigar fell from the fat fingers of Ireland, and he stared in amazement at the young man. "It is rather late in the day for that, is it not?" he asked, picking up the cigar and recovering himself.