A deep arm-chair, covered with horsehair, and studded with a countless throng of brass nails, was pulled up on one side of the fireplace.

The tea-things were on the table, the teapot cover was open, and a little hand-bell had been laid at that precise point towards which a person seated in the great chair might be expected instinctively to stretch his hand.
Stockdale sat down, not objecting to his experience of the room thus far, and began his residence by tinkling the bell.

A little girl crept in at the summons, and made tea for him.

Her name, she said, was Marther Sarer, and she lived out there, nodding towards the road and village generally.

Before Stockdale had got far with his meal, a tap sounded on the door behind him, and on his telling the inquirer to come in, a rustle of garments caused him to turn his head.