Michael got up, and shuffled rather than walked across the room to the
bell by the fireplace. As long as he was sitting down his big arms and
broad shoulders gave the impression of strength, and you would have
expected to find when he got up that he was tall and largely made. But
when he rose the extreme shortness of his legs manifested itself, and
he appeared almost deformed. His hands hung nearly to his knees; he was
heavy, short, lumpish.

"But it's more blessed to give than to receive, Francis," he said. "I
have the best of you there."

"Well, it's pretty blessed to receive when you are in a tight place, as
I was," he said, laughing. "And I am so grateful."

"Yes, I know you are. And it's that which makes me feel rather cheap,
because I don't miss what I've given you. But that's distinctly not a
reason for your doing it again. You'll have tea, won't you?"

"Why, yes," said Francis, getting up, also, and leaning his elbow on
the chimney-piece, which was nearly on a level with the top of Michael's
head. And if Michael had gracefulness only in the art of giving,
Francis's gracefulness in receiving was clearly of a piece with the rest
of him. He was tall, slim and alert, with the quick, soft movements of
some wild animal. His face, brown with sunburn and pink with brisk-going
blood, was exceedingly handsome in a boyish and almost effeminate
manner, and though he was only eighteen months younger than his cousin,
he looked as if nine or ten years might have divided their ages.

"But you are a brick, Mike," he said again, laying his long, brown hand
on his cousin's shoulder. "I can't help saying it twice."