“Monsieur Christian Goefle,” she said, looking at him again with the greatest attention, “you are surprisingly like your uncle!”
“I have often been told so, mademoiselle; it seems that it is a striking likeness.”
“I have never seen him well; indeed, I may say that I have never seen his face at all; but his accent, his pronunciation—yours are absolutely the same.”
“I should have supposed that my voice would be rather younger than his,” replied Cristiano, who had taken pains at Stollborg to speak, every now and then, like an old man.
“Yes, no doubt,” said the young girl; “there is the difference of age, although your uncle still has a very fine organ. After all, he cannot be so very old! He seemed to me much younger than people say. He has magnificent eyes, and is almost of your height.”
“Just about the same,” said Cristiano, giving an involuntary glance at the doctor of law’s suit of clothes, and asking himself whether Margaret was speaking ironically, or questioning him in good faith.
He resolved to bring about an explanation.
“There is another point of resemblance between my uncle and myself,” he said, “and that is the deep interest that we feel in a person of your acquaintance, and the desire with which we both are animated to be of service to her.”
“Ah! ah!” said the young girl, blushing with an air of frankness that dissipated Cristiano’s anxiety; “I see that your uncle has been gossiping, and that he has told you about my visit this evening.”
“I don’t know whether you confided any secret to him; in what he repeated to me there was no mystery at which you need blush.”