Every detail in
her brother's surroundings had an interest for her. Here, as in the
drawing-room, there was an untidy air about everything--a want of harmony
in all the arrangements. There were Flemish carved-oak cabinets, and big
Japan vases; a mantelpiece draped with dusty crimson velvet, a broken
Venetian glass above it, and a group of rusty-looking arms on each side;
long limp amber curtains to the three tall windows, with festooned valances
in an advanced state of disarrangement and dilapidation. There were some
logs burning on the hearth, a pot of chocolate simmering among the ashes,
and breakfast laid for one person upon a little table by the fire--the
remnant of a perigord pie, flanked by a stone bottle of curacoa.
She looked at her brother with anxious scrutinising eyes. No, George
Fairfax had not deceived her. He had the look of a man who was going the
wrong way. There were premature lines across the forehead, and about the
dark brilliant eyes; a nervous expression in the contracted lips. It was
the face of a man who burns the candle of life at both ends. Late hours,
anxiety, dissipation of all kinds, had set their fatal seal upon his
countenance.
"Dear Austin, you are as handsome as ever; but I don't think you are
looking well," she said tenderly.
"Don't look so alarmed, my dear girl," he answered lightly; "I am well
enough; that is to say, I am never ill, never knock under, or strike work.
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