“I should like to see her.”
“She’s not wisible. She’s in grief, and ain’t to be seen.”
“Go and tell her that Mr. Hampden has called and would like to say a word to her.”
“I don’t think——”
“Do what I tell you!” exclaimed Holdsworth.
The girl slouched backwards and pushed her head into the parlour-door.
“She ain’t here. She’s gone upstairs,” said she, and upstairs she went, slapping the staircase with her shoes as she went.
An individual with a round red face, a white hat, a spotted shawl, a coat nearly to his ankles, a long waistcoat, and a black clay pipe in his mouth, lounged elegantly out of the room which Mr. Conway had called his “Surgery” at the end of the passage, and leaning collectedly against the door, nodded familiarly to Holdsworth, took his pipe from his mouth, expectorated, and said “Morning.”
“Good morning. Are you the man in possession?” replied Holdsworth.