military gentleman from the camp perhaps? No; that was impossible.
It was the parson? No; he would not come at dinner-time. It was
the well-informed man who travelled with drapery and the best
Birmingham earrings? Not at all; his time was not till Thursday at
three. Before they could think further the visitor moved forward
another step, and the diners got a glimpse of him through the same
friendly chink that had afforded him a view of the Garland
dinner-table.

'O! It is only Loveday.'

This approximation to nobody was the miller above mentioned, a hale
man of fifty-five or sixty--hale all through, as many were in those
days, and not merely veneered with purple by exhilarating victuals
and drinks, though the latter were not at all despised by him. His
face was indeed rather pale than otherwise, for he had just come
from the mill. It was capable of immense changes of expression:
mobility was its essence, a roll of flesh forming a buttress to his
nose on each side, and a deep ravine lying between his lower lip and
the tumulus represented by his chin. These fleshy lumps moved
stealthily, as if of their own accord, whenever his fancy was
tickled.

His eyes having lighted on the table-cloth, plates, and viands, he
found himself in a position which had a sensible awkwardness for a
modest man who always liked to enter only at seasonable times the
presence of a girl of such pleasantly soft ways as Anne Garland, she
who could make apples seem like peaches, and throw over her
shillings the glamour of guineas when she paid him for flour.