The little family party moved on, while Dr. Mangan, with the ease of
an _habitué_, indicated to his son and daughter the ancestral
portraits in the dining-room, the Cromwellian arms on the staircase,
the coats-of-arms, the Indian weapons, the foxes' masks in the hall.
The son and daughter received the information coldly. It was their
first introduction to the interior of Mount Music, and while Tishy was
filled with a great resolve to be impressed by nothing, Barty was
silenced by those tortures that unfamiliar surroundings have power to
inflict upon the shy.

In his determination to instruct his young in all the possible objects
of interest, Dr. Mangan strolled away from the crowded scene of the
sale, and led them down the long passage, dedicated to sporting
prints, that led to the library.

"There's a picture there that's worth seeing, of a Meeat Coppinger's
Court in the time of Larry's grandfather," he announced impressively,
as he opened the door. "The Talbot-Lowrys and the Coppingers were
always fine sports men--"

A tall old screen stood between the door and the fireplace from behind
it a hunted voice said:

"Who the devil's there now?"

Dr. Mangan thought, complacently: "My diagnosis was correct!" Aloud he
said to his son and daughter, in a tone of hoarse consternation: "To
think of our blundering in on the Major like this! Here! Away now, the
pair of you!"