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Jawleyford, in an
innocent, indifferent sort of way, which was Mr. Sponge's room; though he
had been fussing about it not long before, and dusting the portrait of
himself in his green-and-gold yeomanry uniform, with an old
pocket-handkerchief.
'The crimson room, my dear,' replied the well-drilled Mrs. Jawleyford; and
Spigot coming with candles, Jawleyford preceded 'Mr. Sponge' up a splendid
richly carved oak staircase, of such gradual and easy rise that an invalid
might almost have been drawn up it in a garden-chair.
Passing a short distance along a spacious corridor, Mr. Jawleyford
presently opened a door to the right, and led the way into a large gloomy
room, with a little newly lighted wood fire crackling in an enormous grate,
making darkness visible, and drawing the cold out of the walls. We need
scarcely say it was that terrible room--the best; with three creaking,
ill-fitting windows, and heavy crimson satin-damask furniture, so old as
scarcely to be able to sustain its own weight. 'Ah! here you are,'
observed Mr.


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