The blue jowl, the fat-lidded eyes—now merry, now alert, now tungsten hard—the bullet head, the pudgy fingers and the square-toed shoes were all in conformation with the doctor's olden mental picture. "Eh-day! what's this?" cried Wood, looking up from beneath his spectacles. Arrived beneath an aperture in the broken roof, he was preparing to pass through it, when he observed a little heap of tiles upon the floor, which appeared to have been recently dislodged. It was his particular hobby, and the leisure he had to apply to it had given him a remarkable appraising eye. “You see, dear, one IS passionately anxious for something—what is it? One wants to be CLEAN. " "Right," answered Ireton.
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