Strange it was, that being a clever, well-read man, his powers of conversation were so limited, but as long as those about him talked, he did not appear to think it necessary to exert himself to amuse others, so he passed as a dull, stupid, slow man.
Perhaps his silent, reserved habits had grown upon him imperceptibly, from living so much alone as he had done for the last five years, with only an elderly woman to look after his house, and act as housekeeper; and a boy to wait on him.
The conversation of the two near him had sunk almost to a whisper, it was so low; but they were mistaken if they suspected he was a listener. He was not; his thoughts were with Anne, wondering at the time she took in taking off her hat, and expecting every moment to see the door open.
What would he have said, had he known she was then sound asleep, with no thought for anyone in the whole world, least of all for him. Still his eyes kept wandering towards the door, and at length it did open, but it was Frances Strickland who came in and seated herself on a sofa just behind him.
"You are doing nothing, Mr. Hall," said she presently, "so do come here, I want my skein of wool held."
Mr. Hall did not like the dictatorial manner in which this was said; still, having no excuse to offer, he advanced.
"Pray bring a chair and sit down. How can I wind it, with you towering above me in that way."
"I am tired of sitting," replied Mr. Hall, mildly resenting this speech, "so will stand if you will allow me."
"I should never have supposed you tired of sitting, after the hedges I saw you scrambling through with Anne Bennet."
Mr. Hall coughed uncomfortably. "I enjoyed my walk and am accustomed to the country. It would be well if all young ladies were as active as Miss Bennet."