The servant was still waiting.
“What is it, Hester?”
“Young Mr. Williams has called, sir. He wishes to speak to you for a minute. I believe he has a message.”
Mr. Brander’s face clouded.
“Where is he? I’ll go out and speak to him,” he said, shortly.
But the words were scarcely out of his mouth when a voice, speaking in coarse and familiar tones, was heard outside the door, heralding the approach of the new comer.
“It’s all right; it’s only me. Suppose I can come in, eh?”
And, without waiting for permission, a young man elbowed his way past the servant, and entered the room.
The word which applied best to Mr. Frederick Williams, including his face, voice, dress, and manner, was “cub.” He was short and sandy; he had an expression of mingled dulness and cunning, in which dulness predominated; his dress, his vocabulary, and a certain roll in his walk smacked of the stable; and the only conspicuous quality he showed to balance these disadvantages was a certain coarse good humor which never failed him. He was even destitute of that very common grace in young men of his type—an unsurmountable shyness in the presence of women of refinement. On catching sight of Olivia, seated by the fire, eating cake with unmistakable enjoyment, his eyes opened wide with astonishment and boorish admiration, which gave place the next moment to an expression of intense shyness as, with a loud cough, he affected to retreat to the door.
“Oh, I beg pardon, Mr. Brander; I didn’t mean to interrupt such a pleasant tete-a-tete, I’m sure.”