Howard entered the room, went up to his aunt, and said, in a low voice,—
“Ma’am, poor Cuba is come; she is rather tired with walking, and she is gone to rest herself in the front parlour.”
“Her lameness, though,” pursued little Oliver, who followed Howard into the room, “is almost well. I just asked her how high she thought the coach was from which she was—”
A look from Howard made Oliver stop short; for though he did not understand the full meaning of it, he saw it was designed to silence him. Howard was afraid of betraying Holloway’s secret to Mr. Supine or to Mrs. Holloway: his aunt sent him out of the room with some message to Cuba, which gave Mrs. Holloway an opportunity of opening her business.
“Pray,” said she, “might I presume to ask—for I perceive the young gentleman has some secret to keep from me, which he may have good reasons for—may I, just to satisfy my own mind, presume to ask whether, as her name leads one to guess, your Cuba, Mrs. Howard, is a mulatto woman?”
Surprised by the manner of the question, Mrs. Howard coldly replied, “Yes, madam—a mulatto woman.”
“And she is lame, I think, sir, you mentioned?” persisted the curious lady, turning to little Oliver.
“Yes, she’s a little lame still; but she will soon be quite well.”
“Oh! then, her lameness came, I presume, from an accident, sir, and not from her birth?”
“From an accident, ma’am.”