And he opened the outer door for her impudent departure. Upon closing it after her he caught sight of me and stared. I confess I returned the favor quite involuntarily, for Mr. Pegg was certainly the most extraordinary man I had ever seen. He was about six feet four inches in height, and so heavy that at first his tallness was hardly remarkable. He was perhaps sixty years of age, though magnificently preserved, and his ruddy clean-shaven face had a jaw which my dear father would have described as "iron." His expensive clothing was worn with a negligent air, and his voice was like the roar of a lion.
"Jumping—er—grasshoppers!" he exclaimed, his eyes riveted upon me. "Are you made up for the part?"
At once I rose to my feet in proper indignation.
"I never paint!" I exclaimed angrily. "My color is natural, though perhaps unusual at my age. If it is your intention to get gentlewomen here merely to insult them, Mr. Pegg, I have no further occasion for remaining!"
To my surprise Mr. Pegg merely chuckled at this, and then assuming a more composed manner held open the door to the inner room, making a deep and courteous bow as he did so.
"My dear madam—a thousand pardons!" he said. "You seemed too real to be anything genuine. Please walk in."
And so, wondering if perhaps the poor man was insane, and far from feeling at ease, I complied, entering an enormous drawing-room and accepting the seat on the far side of an incongruously littered table—filled with papers, notes, and so on, and all the paraphernalia of a business man's desk. Mr. Pegg took the armchair behind it and settled to a critical inspection of me, though he did not look at me continuously. I faced the sunset, but as my face was clean, and as at my age I had got past attempting concealment of my crow's feet, I was quite composed—outwardly. Yet I could feel that his glance rested upon my hat, my hair, my silk gloves, my walkrite boots, even—though they were discreetly covered by my dress. And all at once my terror of him diminished. It would be difficult to say just why, but very possibly it was the tone of his voice when he spoke again, for though his diction was shockingly incorrect there was a certain kindliness, a gentleness to it which was unmistakably genuine.
"You ain't a Winthrop by any chance, are you, madam?" he asked.
"No my name is Talbot," said I.