In manner the change was equally apparent. Though colloquial, his speech showed none of the coarse illiterateness of the past. His manner was quiet, abruptly natural, and not lacking in a sort of easy dignity, the dignity of the man who has won his place among men. He was dressed with the utmost simplicity. His soft felt wide-awake was not new, his black prince-albert coat did not fit him with anything like the elegance with which Barry Essex’s outlined his fine shape. A little purple cravat tied in a bow appeared from beneath his turned-down collar. It was somewhat shiny from the brushing of his beard.
“You must suppose I’m anxious to see this young lady,” he said, “after what you’ve told me about her.”
“Well, ask Mr. Essex if I’ve exaggerated,” said Mrs. Willers. “He knows her, too.”
“I don’t know what you’ve said,” he returned, “but I don’t think anything could be too complimentary that was said of Miss Moreau.”
“Eh!—better and better,” said the elder man. “I didn’t know you knew her, Essex?”
He turned his gray eyes, absolutely cold and non-committal on Essex, who answered them with an equally expressionless gaze.
“I’ve known Miss Moreau for three months,” he replied. “I met her here.”
Shackleton turned back to Mrs. Willers.
“I understand from you, Mrs. Willers, that these ladies are left extremely badly off. Are they absolutely without means?”
“No-o,” she answered, “not exactly that. Mr. Moreau left a life insurance policy of five thousand dollars. Mariposa tells me that three thousand of that went to pay his doctors’ bills and funeral expenses. He was sick a long time. They are now living on their capital, and they’ve been here four months, and Mrs. Moreau has constant medical attendance.”