breast and shoulders.

"Certainly," said George, half aloud. "Father Time himself. This
is where he lives, Sophie."

"We came," said Sophie weakly. "Can we see the house? I'm afraid
that's our dog."

"No, 'tis Rambler," said the old man. "He's been, at my
swill-pail again. Staying at Rocketts, be ye? Come in. Ah! you
runagate!"

The hound broke from him, and he tottered after him down the
drive. They entered the hall--just such a high light hall as such
a house should own. A slim-balustered staircase, wide and shallow
and once creamy-white, climbed out of it under a long oval
window. On either side delicately moulded doors gave on to
wool-lumbered rooms, whose sea-green mantelpieces were adorned
with nymphs, scrolls, and Cupids in low relief.

"What's the firm that makes these things?" cried Sophie,
enraptured. "Oh, I forgot! These must be the originals. Adams, is
it? I never dreamed of anything like that steel-cut fender. Does
he mean us to go everywhere?"

"He's catching the dog," said George, looking out. "We don't
count."

They explored the first or ground floor, delighted as children
playing burglars.