“Military time, sir,” he replied. “Force of habit. A mere habit in me, sir. I am not at all business-like.”
“Yet you have a large establishment, too, I am told?” said Mr. Jarndyce.
“Not much of a one, sir. I keep a shooting gallery, but not much of a one.”
“And what kind of a shot, and what kind of a swordsman, do you make of Mr. Carstone?” said my guardian.
“Pretty good, sir,” he replied, folding his arms upon his broad chest, and looking very large. “If Mr. Carstone was to give his full mind to it, he would come out very good.”
“But he don't, I suppose?” said my guardian.
“He did at first, sir, but not afterwards, Not his full mind. Perhaps he has something else upon it—some young lady, perhaps.” His bright dark eyes glanced at me for the first time.
“He has not me upon his mind, I assure you, Mr. George,” said I, laughing, “though you seem to suspect me.”
He reddened a little through his brown, and made me a trooper's bow. “No offence, I hope, miss. I am one of the Roughs.”
“Not at all,” said I. “I take it as a compliment.”
If he had not looked at me before, he looked at me now, in three or four quick successive glances. “I beg your pardon, sir,” he said to my guardian, with a manly kind of diffidence, “but you did me the honor to mention the young lady's name———”
“Miss Summerson.”
“Miss Summerson,” he repeated, and looked at me again.
“Do you know the name?” I asked.
“No, miss. To my knowledge, I never heard it. I thought I had seen you somewhere.”
“I think not,” I returned, raising my head from my work to look at him; and there was something so genuine in his speech and manner, that I was glad of the opportunity. “I remember faces very well.”
“So do I, miss!” he returned, meeting my look with the fulness of his dark eyes and broad forehead. “Humph! What set me off", now, upon that!”
His once more reddening through his brown, and being disconcerted by his efforts to remember the association, brought my guardian to his relief.
“Have you many pupils, Mr. George?”
“They vary in their number, sir. Mostly, they're but a small lot to live by.”
“And what classes of chance people come to practise at your gallery?”
“All sorts, sir. Natives and foreigners. From gentlemen to 'prentices. I have had French women come, before now, and show themselves dabs at pistol-shooting. Mad people out of number, of course—but they go everywhere, where the doors stand open.”
“People don't come with grudges, and schemes of finishing their practice with live targets, I hope?” said my guardian, smiling.
“Not much of that, sir, though that has happened. Mostly they come for skill—or idleness. Six of one, and half a dozen of the other. I beg your pardon,” said Mr. George, sitting stiffly upright, and squaring an
