Liversedge's dining-room when the family had assembled
for the midday meal. Picture a long and lofty room, lighted by
windows which opened upon a lawn and flower-garden, adorned with
large oil paintings (cattle-pieces and portraits) in massive and,
for the most part, tarnished frames, and furnished in the solidest
of British styles--mahogany chairs and table, an immense
sideboard, a white marble fireplace, and a chandelier hanging with
ponderous menace above the gleaming expanse of table-cloth. Here
were seated eleven persons: Mr. Liversedge and his wife, their seven
children (four girls and three boys), Miss Pope the governess, and
Mr. Denzil Quarrier; waited upon by two maid-servants, with ruddy
cheeks, and in spotless attire. Odours of roast meat filled the air.
There was a jolly sound of knife-and-fork play, of young voices
laughing and chattering, of older ones in genial colloquy. A great
fire blazed and crackled up the chimney. Without, a roaring wind
stripped the autumnal leafage of the garden, and from time to time
drenched the windows with volleys of rain.
Tobias Liversedge was a man of substance, but in domestic habits he
followed the rule of the unpretentious middle-class. Breakfast at
eight, dinner at one, tea at five, supper at nine--such was the
order of the day that he had known in boyhood, and it suited him
well enough now that he was at the head of a household.
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