'Tell me just what you think of them, my dear; it will amuse me to compare your impressions with what they really are.' 'Oh! but I did not mean to guess at their characters.I could not do it;and it would be impertinent, if I could.I can only speak about their faces as I see them in the picture.' 'Well! tell me what you think of them!' 'The eldest - the reading boy - is very beautiful; but I can't quite make out his face yet, because his head is down, and I can't see the eyes.That is the Mr Osborne Hamley who writes poetry?' 'Yes.He is not quite so handsome now; but he was a beautiful boy.Roger was never to be compared with him.' 'No; he is not handsome.And yet I like his face.I can see his eyes.They are grave and solemn-looking; but all the rest of his face is rather merry than otherwise.It looks too steady and sober, too good a face, to go tempting his brother to leave his lesson.' 'Ah! but it was not a lesson.I remember the painter, Mr Green, once saw Osborne reading some poetry, while Roger was trying to persuade him to come out and have a ride in the hay-cart - that was the "motive" of the picture, to speak artistically.Roger is not much of a reader; at least, he doesn't care for poetry, and books of romance, or sentiment.He is so fond of natural history; and that takes him, like the squire, a great deal out of doors; and when he is in, he is always reading scientific books that bear upon his pursuits.He is a good, steady fellow, though, and gives us great satisfaction, but he is not likely to have such a brilliant career as Osborne.' Molly tried to find out in the picture the characteristics of the two boys, as they were now explained to her by their mother; and in questions and answers about the various drawings hung round the room the time passed away until the dressing-bell rang for the six o'clock dinner.Molly was rather dismayed by the offers of the maid whom Mrs Hamley had sent to assist her.'I am afraid they expect me to be very smart,' she kept thinking to herself.'If they do, they'll be disappointed; that's all.But I wish my plaid silk gown had been ready.' She looked at herself in the glass with some anxiety, for the first time in her life.She saw a slight, lean figure, promising to be tall; a complexion browner than cream-coloured, although in a year or two it might have that tint; plentiful curly black hair, tied up in a bunch behind with a rose-coloured ribbon; long, almond-shaped, soft grey eyes, shaded both above and below by curling black eye-lashes.'I don't think I am pretty,' thought Molly, as she turned away from the glass; 'and yet I am not sure.' She would have been sure, if, instead of inspecting herself with such solemnity, she had smiled her own sweet merry smile, and called out the gleam of her teeth, and the charm of her dimples.She found her way downstairs into the drawing-room in good time; she could look about her, and learn how to feel at home in her new quarters.The room was forty-feet long or so, fitted up with yellow satin at some distant period; high spindle-legged chairs and pembroke-tables abounded.The carpet was of the same date as the curtains, and was threadbare in many places;and in others was covered with drugget.Stands of plants, great jars of flowers, old Indian china and cabinets gave the room the pleasant aspect it certainly had.And to add to it, there were five high, long windows on one side of the room, all opening to the prettiest bit of flower-garden in the grounds - or what was considered as such - brilliant-coloured, geometrically-shaped beds, converging to a sun-dial in the midst.The squire came in abruptly, and in his morning dress; he stood at the door, as if surprised at the white-robed stranger in possession of his hearth.Then, suddenly remembering himself, but not before Molly had begun to feel very hot, he said, - 'Why, God bless my soul, I'd quite forgotten you; you're Miss Gibson, Gibson's daughter, aren't you? Come to pay us a visit? I'm sure I'm very glad to see you, my dear.' By this time, they had met in the middle of the room, and he was shaking Molly's hand with vehement friendliness, intended to make up for his not knowing her at first.'I must go and dress, though,' he said, looking at his soiled gaiters.
'Madam likes it.It's one of her fine London ways, and she's broken me into it at last.Very good plan, though, and quite right to make oneself fit for ladies' society.Does your father dress for dinner, Miss Gibson?'