He stands the candle on the chimney-piece in the clerk’s hall and taps his dry cheek with the key as he addresses these words of welcome to Mademoiselle Hortense. That feline personage, with her lips tightly shut and her eyes looking out at him sideways, softly closes the door before replying.
“I have had great deal of trouble to find you, sir.”
“HAVE you!”
“I have been here very often, sir. It has always been said to me, he is not at home, he is engage, he is this and that, he is not for you.”
“Quite right, and quite true.”
“Not true. Lies!”
At times there is a suddenness in the manner of Mademoiselle Hortense so like a bodily spring upon the subject of it that such subject involuntarily starts and fails back. It is Mr. Tulkinghorn’s case at present, though Mademoiselle Hortense, with her eyes almost shut up (but still looking out sideways), is only smiling contemptuously and shaking her head.
“Now, mistress,” says the lawyer, tapping the key hastily upon the chimney-piece. “If you have anything to say, say it, say it.”
“Sir, you have not use me well. You have been mean and shabby.”
“Mean and shabby, eh?” returns the lawyer, rubbing his nose with the key.