Here he is. How are
you, Turnbull? We were talking about my maid-servant. I hope she
opened the door for you properly."
"Certainly,--as far as I perceived," said Mr. Turnbull, who was
better at a speech than a joke. "A very respectable young woman I
should say."
"There is not one more so in all London," said Mr. Monk; "but Finn
seems to think that I ought to have a man in livery."
"It is a matter of perfect indifference to me," said Mr. Turnbull.
"I am one of those who never think of such things."
"Nor I either," said Mr. Monk. Then the laird of Loughlinter was
announced, and they all went down to dinner.
Mr. Turnbull was a good-looking robust man about sixty, with long
grey hair and a red complexion, with hard eyes, a well-cut nose, and
full lips. He was nearly six feet high, stood quite upright, and
always wore a black swallow-tail coat, black trousers, and a black
silk waistcoat. In the House, at least, he was always so dressed, and
at dinner tables. What difference there might be in his costume when
at home at Staleybridge few of those who saw him in London had the
means of knowing. There was nothing in his face to indicate special
talent. No one looking at him would take him to be a fool; but there
was none of the fire of genius in his eye, nor was there in the lines
of his mouth any of that play of thought or fancy which is generally
to be found in the faces of men and women who have made themselves
great.
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