The dining-room had a red flock paper on the walls, and dull crimson-red curtains at the window. The Turkey carpet was covered with red drugget. The furniture was of cumbrous mahogany and leather. On the black marble mantelshelf was a black marble clock. The sideboard was heavy and too large for the room. The sole picture on the walls was the portrait, very flat, of the late Dr. Tomkin-Jones, in a black suit and white cravat and pasty face against a background of red curtains.
'My daughters, Sylvana and Jesse,' said Mrs. Jones; and two young women, who had been crouching over a very small fire in a very elevated grate, rose.
The elder was somewhat like her mother, but had her father's cadaverous complexion and a spiteful expression. The younger, Jesse, was pleasant-looking and almost pretty.
'My dears,' said Mrs. Tomkin-Jones, 'I need not introduce you to our good friend and remote kinswoman, Mrs. Jose, who sends us at Christmas such excellent hams and geese and all kinds of good things. But I beg to introduce Miss Holwood, who belongs to the Lambton family you know, connected with the Finnboroughs, whose carriage and liveries, brown turned up with scarlet, you are so familiar with.'
Sylvana rose frigidly and inclined her head, but Jesse darted forward, caught Mrs. Jose in her arms and kissed her.
'My dear,' said the mother reproachfully.
'My aunt,' said the girl, 'and an old darling.'
'Well, not absolutely, not exactly an aunt,' said Mrs. Tomkin-Jones. 'Please, however, do not forget Miss Holwood.'
The farmer's wife's face flushed with pleasure, and a kindly light kindled in her eyes, hitherto awestruck.
'You would like to see your room,' said the lady to Winefred. 'Jesse will show you. Her name is Jesse, not Jose. Jesse, my dear, do not gush; gushing is unladylike.'