“Mr Guppy” is all the information the card yields.

“Guppy!” repeats Mrs Rouncewell, “Mr Guppy! Nonsense, I never heard of him!”

“If you please, he told me that!” says Rosa. “But he said that he and the other young gentleman came from London only last night by the mail, on business at the magistrates’ meeting ten miles off, this morning; and that as their business was soon over, and they had heard a great deal said of Chesney Wold, and really didn’t know what to do with themselves, they had come through the wet to see it. They are lawyers. He says he is not in Mr Tulkinghorn’s office, but he is sure he may make use of Mr Tulkinghorn’s name if necessary.” Finding, now she leaves off, that she has been making quite a long speech, Rosa is shyer than ever.

Now, Mr Tulkinghorn is, in a manner, part and parcel of the place; and, besides, is supposed to have made Mrs Rouncewell’s will. The old lady relaxes, consents to the admission of the visitors as a favour, and dismisses Rosa. The grandson, however, being smitten by a sudden wish to see the house himself, proposes to join the party. The grandmother, who is pleased that he should have that interest, accompanies him — though, to do him justice, he is exceedingly unwilling to trouble her.

“Much obliged to you, ma’am!” says Mr Guppy, divesting himself of his wet dreadnought in the hall. “Us London lawyers don’t often get an out; and when we do, we like to make the most of it, you know.”

The old housekeeper, with a gracious severity of deportment, waves her hand towards the great staircase. Mr Guppy and his friend follow Rosa, Mrs Rouncewell and her grandson follow them, a young gardener goes before to open the shutters.

As is usually the case with people who go over houses, Mr Guppy and his friend are dead beat before they have well begun. They straggle about in wrong places, look at wrong things, don’t care for the right things, gape when more rooms are opened, exhibit profound depression of spirits, and are clearly knocked up. In each successive chamber that they enter, Mrs Rouncewell, who is as upright as the house itself, rests apart in a window seat, or other such nook, and listens with stately approval to Rosa’s exposition. Her grandson is so attentive to it, that Rosa is shyer than ever — and prettier. Thus they pass on from room to room, raising the pictured Dedlocks for a few brief minutes as the young gardener admits the light, and reconsigning them to their graves as he shuts it out again. It appears to the afflicted Mr Guppy and his inconsolable friend, that there is no end to the Dedlocks, whose family greatness seems to consist in their never having done anything to distinguish themselves, for seven hundred years.

Even the long drawing-room of Chesney Wold cannot revive Mr Guppy’s spirits. He is so low that he droops on the threshold, and has hardly strength of mind to enter. But a portrait over the chimney-piece, painted by the fashionable artist of the day, acts upon him like a charm. He recovers in a moment. He stares at it with uncommon interest; he seems to be fixed and fascinated by it.

“Dear me!” says Mr Guppy. “Who’s that?”

“The picture over the fire-place,” says Rosa, “is the portrait of the present Lady Dedlock. It is considered a perfect likeness, and the best work of the master.”

“Blest,” says Mr Guppy, staring in a kind of dismay at his friend, “if I can ever have seen her. Yet I know her! Has the picture been engraved, miss?”

“The picture has never been engraved. Sir Leicester has always refused permission.”

“Well!” says Mr Guppy in a low voice. “I’ll be shot if it ain’t very curious how well I know that picture! So that’s Lady Dedlock, is it!”