“A gentleman who calls to pay his respects. Here, take my card.”
And he handed the man his name, as a private gentleman, superbly engraved at Paris, on gilded paper.
Israel tarried in the hall while the old servant led Paul into a parlor.
Presently the lady appeared.
“Charming Madame, I wish you a very good morning.”
“Who may it be, sir, that I have the happiness to see?” said the lady, censoriously drawing herself up at the too frank gallantry of the stranger.
“Madame, I sent you my card.”
“Which leaves me equally ignorant, sir,” said the lady, coldly, twirling the gilded pasteboard.
“A courier dispatched to Whitehaven, charming Madame, might bring you more particular tidings as to who has the honor of being your visitor.”
Not comprehending what this meant, and deeply displeased, if not vaguely alarmed, at the characteristic manner of Paul, the lady, not entirely unembarrassed, replied, that if the gentleman came to view the isle, he was at liberty so to do. She would retire and send him a guide.