Culver Allen.
"Who is your fat friend?" enquired Caroline of Hargrave, when they met at dinner.
"The gentleman who called this morning," he replied, drawing himself up with much hauteur, "is my uncle."
Mrs. Villars cast a look upon her daughter, which seemed to say, half in entreaty, and half in reproof.
"Oh, your unfortunate tongue."
At the same time, Hargrave, perhaps, perceiving that Mabel's quick glance was upon him, suddenly changed his manner, and seemed, by the gentleness of his tone, anxious to apologise for the short feeling of anger Caroline's query had occasioned.
"I had not time to introduce him this morning," he said, "before the entrance of Mr. Stokes; but I was otherwise going to ask my aunt to give him the entrée of the house, as he is a perfect stranger here, and his only object is to see me."
"Oh, certainly," said Mrs. Villars, with one of her blandest smiles—"any friend of yours is welcome here, as a matter of course; I shall be delighted to know him."
"He is a singular being," returned Hargrave, smiling his thanks; "and those only who are familiar with his peculiarities, can see through them, the greatness and goodness of his heart. There is no man to whom I owe so much—and few whom I esteem so highly."
"Indeed," said Caroline, "one ought not to judge so hastily of strangers. I am sure, I beg your pardon, for speaking of him disrespectfully."