Gaspar took the periodical without thanks, and prepared himself for the enjoyment of its perusal by a copious pinch of snuff, scattering the brown powder as he did so over the printed sheet. Isa knew that the baronet was very particular about his papers, and mentally resolved never again to ask for a loan of the Times.
Gaspar pushed his chair round towards the light, and settled himself to read, taking no further notice of Isa, who sat undecided whether to remain or to leave him to the occupation which he evidently found more interesting than her society. Isa had stored her memory with little anecdotes and small scraps of news which she thought might amuse the recluse, but Gaspar showed no wish to enter into conversation. His sister thought with regret of the time when they used to meet in London under the roof of a friend, when her brother had appeared to her to be all courtesy and kindness.
“Does he love me less because he knows me better?” was the disheartening thought which crossed her mind.
Mr. Gritton read for some minutes in silence, and Isa was thinking of rising to depart, when, looking over his newspaper, her brother suddenly addressed her.
“Isa, have you ever met that woman?”
“I do not know of whom you are speaking,” answered Isa.
“Cora Madden, of course,” said Gaspar. “I repeat—have you ever met her?”
“Yes; several times, years ago,” replied his sister.
“And did you ever speak to her; did you come upon the subject of—of—what we were speaking about the other morning?”
“Certainly not,” answered Isa; “I have never seen her since my loss; of our dear father’s last words I have spoken to no one but yourself; I was not even aware of the name of the orphan to whom he referred.”