"When are your instructions to begin?" said Mr. Barrowe, with a certain awkward yet positive gallantry. "I am very anxious to receive them."
"Your first intimation of them will be a request to dine with me. Will you accept?—you and your wife of course."
"But my wife is an invalid. She never goes anywhere."
"I hope, however, that she sometimes dines."
"Yes, she dines, poor woman ... incidentally."
"Then she will perhaps give me an incidental invitation to break bread.... Oh, my dear Mr. Barrowe, what I mean is simply that I want to know you better, and so acquire the right to tell you of a few superficial faults which prevent all the world from recognizing your kindly soul. I...."
But here Pauline paused, for a servant entered with a card. She glanced at the card, and made an actually doleful grimace.
"Mr. Leander Prawle is here," she said to her visitor.
Mr. Barrowe gave a start. "In that case I must go," he said. "I once spoke ill of that young gentleman's most revered poem, and since then he has never deigned to notice me."
"But you will not forget the dinner, and what is to follow," said Pauline, as she shook hands.