chimney.

The character of the hall was, however, completely destroyed by the
decoration which had been bestowed upon it, and by the furniture and
pictures which filled it.

John Crewys looked round with more indignation than admiration at the
home of his ancestors.

In the great oriel window stood a round mahogany table, bearing a
bouquet of wax flowers under a glass shade. Cases of stuffed birds
ornamented every available recess; mahogany and horsehair chairs
were set stiffly round the walls at even distances. A heap of folded
moth-eaten rugs and wraps disfigured a side-table, and beneath it
stood a row of clogs and goloshes.

Round the walls hung full-length portraits of an early Victorian date.
The artist had spent a couple of months at Barracombe fifty years
since, and had painted three generations of the Crewys family, who
were then gathered together beneath its hospitable roof. His diligence
had been more remarkable than his ability. At any other time John
Crewys would have laughed outright at this collection of works of art.

But the air was charged with tragedy, and he could not laugh. His
seriousness commended him favourably, had he known it, to the two
old ladies, his cousins, Sir Timothy's half-sisters, who were seated
beside the great log fire, and who regarded him with approving eyes.
For their stranger cousin had that extreme gentleness and courtesy
of manner and regard, which sometimes accompanies unusual strength,
whether of character or of person.