Uncle John sat with his chin resting on the head of his cane, apparently so much engaged with his own thoughts as to be unconscious of what was passing.
In a few minutes the door reopened, and a young woman in plain attire, and of modest, almost timid aspect, entered. Mr. Dainty was standing with his back to the fire; Mrs. Dainty sat in her morning wrapper, with the King Charles spaniel still in comfortable quarters; and Uncle John remained in the same position, not stirring as the girl entered.
“Take a chair,” said Mrs. Dainty, with that supercilious indifference which imagined superiority often puts on toward imagined inferiors.
The girl flushed, trembled, and sat down, letting her eyes fall to the floor.
“What is your name?” asked Mrs. Dainty.
“Florence Harper,” replied the girl.
“Where do you live?”
“At No. — Elwood Street.”
“With whom?”
“My aunt.”