"And speak as loud as you can; he is as deaf as a post," adds Constance, not in the least lowering her voice at the announcement, in perfect confidence of the truth of her assertion, shrugging her handsome shoulders as she speaks.
Esther goes trembling, and lays her small cold hand in the long bony wreck of muscle, vein, and flesh that is stretched out to her. He gazes at her face with the eager intentness of the purblind.
"What is your name?" he asks abruptly.
"Esther," she answers, faltering.
"Cannot hear a word you say—you mumble so," he says, pettishly.
"Go round to the other side; the other ear is the best," suggests Constance, calmly.
Esther obeys. "Esther," she repeats, speaking unnecessarily loud this time—at the top of her voice, in fact, out of sheer nervousness.
"You need not scream at me, my dear, as if I were stone deaf. Esther or Hester, did you say?"
"Esther."
"And who gave it you, pray?"