One morning Mrs. Dundyke happened to be in Mrs. Hardcastle's room, when the English waiter entered.
"My master's compliments, madam," he said, "and he hopes Mr. Hardcastle has some news for him this morning."
The lady's face went crimson, the first time Mrs. Dundyke had seen any natural colour on it, and she answered, in a haughty tone, that Mr. Hardcastle was not then in—when he was, the man could speak with him.
"For it is now a fortnight, madam, since he has daily promised to——"
"I have nothing to do with it," interrupted Mrs. Hardcastle, imperiously motioning the waiter from the room; "you must address yourself to my husband."
Mrs. Dundyke wondered what this little scene could mean. Had it been people of less known wealth than the Hardcastles, she might have thought it bore reference to the settlement—or non-settlement—of the bill. But that could scarcely happen with them.
"What are you thinking of, Betsey?" Mr. Dundyke asked her that same day, she sat so deep in thought.
"I was thinking of Mr. Hardcastle's eyes."
"Of Mr. Hardcastle's eyes!" echoed the common-councilman.
"Just then I was, David. The fact is, they puzzle me—they are always puzzling me. I feel quite certain I have seen them somewhere, or eyes exactly like them."