“In a female, I do. Besides, she spills it On her clothes. Ugh! Oh, I did not mean you, sir!” she added, with a ripple of sudden laughter. “You do it with such an air!”
“Thank you!” he said.
A waiter came in to lay the covers for dinner, and presented a small, twisted note to Sir Richard on a large tray.
He picked it up unhurriedly, and spread it open. Pen, anxiously watching him, could detect nothing in his face but boredom. He read the note through to the end, and consigning it to his pocket, glanced towards Pen. “Let me see: what were we discussing?”
“Snuff,” replied Pen, in a hollow voice.
“Ah, yes! I myself use King’s Martinique, but there are many who consider it a trifle light in character.”
She returned a mechanical answer, and upon the waiter’s leaving the room, interrupted Sir Richard’s description of the proper way to preserve snuff in good condition, by demanding impetuously: “Who was it from, sir?”
“Don’t be inquisitive!” said Sir Richard calmly.
“You can’t deceive me! I feel sure it was from that hateful man.”
“It was, but there is no occasion for you to trouble your head over it, believe me.”