“Gentleman so kind as to act as my solicitor,” says Grandfather Smallweed. “I am not the sort of client for a gentleman of such note, but he is so good!”
Mr. Guppy, slightly nudging his friend to take another look, makes a shuffling bow to Mr. Tulkinghorn, who returns it with an easy nod. Mr. Tulkinghorn is looking on as if he had nothing else to do and were rather amused by the novelty.
“A good deal of property here, sir, I should say,” Mr. Guppy observes to Mr. Smallweed.
“Principally rags and rubbish, my dear friend! Rags and rubbish! Me and Bart and my granddaughter Judy are endeavouring to make out an inventory of what’s worth anything to sell. But we haven’t come to much as yet; we—haven’t—come—to—hah!”
Mr. Smallweed has run down again, while Mr. Weevle’s eye, attended by Mr. Guppy’s eye, has again gone round the room and come back.
“Well, sir,” says Mr. Weevle. “We won’t intrude any longer if you’ll allow us to go upstairs.”
“Anywhere, my dear sir, anywhere! You’re at home. Make yourself so, pray!”
As they go upstairs, Mr. Guppy lifts his eyebrows inquiringly and looks at Tony. Tony shakes his head. They find the old room very dull and dismal, with the ashes of the fire that was burning on that memorable night yet in the discoloured grate. They have a great disinclination to touch any object, and carefully blow the dust from it first. Nor are they desirous to prolong their visit, packing the few movables with all possible speed and never speaking above a whisper.