"I suppose," says Esther, with some embarrassment, "that they will send for me if they want me for anything, won't they? Perhaps" (with diffidence)—"perhaps you will kindly tell me the sort of things they will want me to do?"
"My uncle will be down presently," answered Miss Blessington, "and he will then expect you to read to him until luncheon."
"To read what? The Bible?" inquired Esther, who has a vague idea that the Bible is the only form in which literature should employ the attention of the aged.
"The Bible? Oh, dear, no!" (with a little laugh). "The papers: the Times, Saturday, and Justice of the Peace, are his favourites; he takes a great, a remarkable interest, considering his age, in politics."
"I like reading aloud," says Esther, resolute to look on the bright side.
"Reading aloud to my uncle is very fatiguing," replies Constance, cheeringly: "one has to sustain one's voice at a pitch several octaves higher than the natural one. I attempted reading to him once or twice, but it affected my throat so much that I had to leave off," she ends, with a little lackadaisical cough.
"I daresay it won't affect mine," rejoins the other rather drily.
There is a pause. Talking is a vice to which Miss Blessington is nowise addicted—more especially objectless talking to a little person of the feminine gender who is not one of nous autres.
"I hope," says Esther, presently, trusting to the obtuseness of her companion's perceptions not to discover the flagrant hypocrisy of the question—"I hope that Sir Thomas was quite well when you left Felton?"
"Quite—thanks."