“What a horrid-looking man!” she said, as she threw herself upon a well-worn lounge, and breathed heavily.
“What an ugly old vixen!” replied the gentleman thus apostrophised, looking up from the desk at which he sat writing.
“Hem!” rejoined Miss Sophia, eyeing him wickedly, and still labouring for her breath, after her unwonted exertion.
“Well, madam?”
“How dare you, sir—but this is Mr. Beanson, no doubt?”
“Yes, madam.”
“I called, sir,” pronounced Miss Garr, in an angry tone, “to have you explain to me explicitly, and without reservation, what constitutes a breach of promise.”
Now two different persons had been harassing Mr. Beanson that very morning with unpaid bills. Yet it was a characteristic of this remarkable man that all his greatest troubles were in the future—that undiscovered country of his first brief, and the presidency. He was possessed of a wonderful talent at apprehending evil; and he had not heard Miss Sophia this long without exerting it. He thought instantly of the snares laid for unsuspecting young men by designing females, and did not grow calmer as his visitor repeated—
“Come, sir; you profess to be a lawyer, if you are not. Can you tell me, sir?”
“M—madam, I don’t know you!” exclaimed Mr. Beanson, feeling very much confused, but looking, as he always did, very aggressive.