“Not that I have ever heard,” repeated he, with a more dubious smile.
“Well, a secretary of embassy, perhaps? something of that kind? Who is he? what is he? where does he belong to?”
“You mean Bob, Miss Dalton,” said he, at once puffing out his cheeks and running his hand through his hair, till it became a very good resemblance of the ex-Consul's wig, while, by a slight adjustment of his waistcoat, he imitated the pretentious presence of the mock royalty. “'You mean Bob, madam,'” said he, mimicking his measured intonation and pompous tone, “'Old Fogey, as Mathews always called me. Mathews and I and Townsend were always together, dined at Greenwich every Sunday regularly. What nights they were! Flows of reason, and feasts of eh? yes, that's what they were.'”
“I must remind you that I never saw him,” said she, laughing; “though I'm certain, if I should hereafter, it will not be very hard to recognize him. Now, who is he?”
“He himself says, a grandson of George the Fourth. Less interested biographers call him a son of Foglass and Crattles, who, I believe, were not even coachmakers to royalty. He was a consul at Ezmeroum, or some such place. At least, they showed him the name on a map, and bade him find it out; but he found out something more, it seems, that there was neither pay nor perquisites, neither passports nor peculation; and he has brought back his wisdom once again to besiege the Foreign Office. But how do you happen to ask about him?”
“Some of my friends met him in Germany,” said she, hesitatingly. She might have blushed, had Jekyl looked at her; but he knew better, and took pains to bestow his glances in another direction.
“It would be kind to tell them that the man is a most prying, inquisitive sort of creature, who, if he only had the sense of hearing, would be as mischievous as Purvis.”
“I fancy they will see but little of him,” said she, with a saucy toss of the head. “He made their acquaintance by affecting to know me. I 'm sure I 've no recollection of having ever seen him.”
“Of course you never knew him, Miss Dalton!” replied he, with a subdued horror in his voice as he spoke.
“A letter for you, Mademoiselle,” said the servant to Kate; “and the man waits for an answer.”