The door was opened by a corpulent man in a claret-coloured livery, and a groggy eye, who, on my asking if Mr. Hargrave was within, cocked his head, and reflected a little before he answered,
“He is, sir.”
“Well, show me in, and tell Mr. Hargrave I am here.”
“I will, sir,” answered the man, whose accent intimated his nationality pretty powerfully.
I thought him a bit of a fool, or perhaps new to his place, and entered the hall, remarking, however, that he shrank away from me as I passed him. Burnt up by the sun, and blinded by the glare in the road, and wearied by my walk, and half-choked with dust, and, above all, utterly disgusted with the extraordinary behaviour of the young lady of the avenue, I flung my hat and bag pettishly on the hall table and marched into a long, handsome drawing-room, the fat man-servant meanwhile watching me intently as I entered, and hurriedly banging the door to when I was within.
I threw myself into an arm-chair, thankful for the privilege of resting myself, and glanced languidly around the spacious room. In any other mood I should have found a great deal to admire; but I was so vexed and amazed by my reception in the avenue, and so irritated by the imbecile behaviour of the footman, that I could think of nothing else.
However, I had scarcely been seated a minute when my uncle came in.
“How are you? how are you?” he cried, grasping my hand. “Delighted to see you and to welcome you. Why didn’t you let us know the train you came by? We would have saved you a scorching walk.”
“I wish I had,” I answered; “that hill near the station has nearly been the death of me.”
“Ay, that road in summer is awful. But a glass of seltzer and brandy will soon set you right,” and he rang the bell. “How did you leave them at Grove End?” he inquired.