Thyrza leapt to
the ground, Mrs. Dixon picked up her brush and duster, and Dixon resumed
his tending of the fire.
A man in a dripping overcoat and leggings pushed his way rapidly through
the cases, looking round him with an air of worried authority.
"I don't call that much of a fire, Dixon."
"I've been at it, sir, for near an hour."
"You've got some damp wood. What about the drawing-room?"
He threw open a door on the right. The others followed him in.
The open door revealed a room of singular architectural charm; an oval
room panelled in dark oak, with a stucco ceiling, in free Italianate
design. But within its stately and harmonious walls a single oil lamp, of
the cheapest and commonest pattern, emitting a strong smell of paraffin,
threw its light upon furniture, quite new, that most seaside lodgings
would have disdained; viz., a cheap carpet of a sickly brown, leaving
edges of bare boards between itself and the wainscot; an ugly "suite"
covered with crimson rep, such as only a third-rate shop in a small
provincial town could have provided; with a couple of tables, and a
"chiffonier," of the kind that is hawked on barrows in an East End
street.
Mr. Tyson looked at the room uneasily. He had done his best with the
ridiculous sum provided; but of course it was all wrong.
He passed on silently through a door in the wainscoting of the
drawing-room. The others again followed, Thyrza's mouth twitching with
laughter.
Another large room, almost dark, with a few guttering candles on the
table.
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