‘Is there nothing,’ he thought, glancing at her as she sat at the head of the table, where her youthful figure, small and slight, but very graceful, looked as pretty as it looked misplaced; ‘is there nothing that will move that face?’
Yes! By Jupiter, there was something, and here it was, in an unexpected shape. Tom appeared. She changed as the door opened, and broke into a beaming smile.
A beautiful smile. Mr. James Harthouse might not have thought so much of it, but that he had wondered so long at her impassive face. She put out her hand—a pretty little soft hand; and her fingers closed upon her brother’s, as if she would have carried them to her lips.
‘Ay, ay?’ thought the visitor. ‘This whelp is the only creature she cares for. So, so!’
The whelp was presented, and took his chair. The appellation was not flattering, but not unmerited.
‘When I was your age, young Tom,’ said Bounderby, ‘I was punctual, or I got no dinner!’
‘When you were my age,’ resumed Tom, ‘you hadn’t a wrong balance to get right, and hadn’t to dress afterwards.’
‘Never mind that now,’ said Bounderby.
‘Well, then,’ grumbled Tom. ‘Don’t begin with me.’
‘Mrs. Bounderby,’ said Harthouse, perfectly hearing this under-strain as it went on; ‘your brother’s face is quite familiar to me. Can I have seen him abroad? Or at some public school, perhaps?’