He stares more intently, frowns more portentously, and respires more loudly than ever.
“A charming country,” I say.
“No doubt,” says Fisher.
At this moment the door opens behind him and a lady appears. She has a puffy cheek, a pale eye, a comfortable figure, a curled fringe of gray hair, and slightly projecting teeth; in a word, the mate of Fisher. There can be no mistake, and I am quick to seize the chance.
“My dear Mrs. Fisher!” I exclaim, advancing towards her.
With a movement like a hippopotamus wallowing, Fisher places himself between us. Does he think I have come to elope with her?
I assume the indignant rôle.
“Mr. Fisher!” I cry, much hurt at this want of confidence.
“Who is this gentleman?” asks Mrs. Fisher, looking at me, I think, with a not altogether disapproving glance.
“Ask him,” says Fisher.