He did not seem to notice that she was looking at his hands and neglecting to carry on the conversation; he had a trick of becoming absorbed in his own thoughts at a moment’s notice, so she had observed; but he could be recalled just as easily and quickly. She went on presently—
“That other girl’s hands wouldn’t make a mark, would they? She seems rather superior.”
“Who? The landlady’s niece. Oh, she has been at school in London, and is quite a personage—plays this piano in the winter, and reads ‘George Eliot.’”
“I don’t like her,” said Mrs. Elles, “and she doesn’t like me.”
“Nonsense!” he said, as if he were speaking to a child; “Jane Ann is a very good girl indeed.”
“Her head is too big for her body,” Mrs. Elles added, irrelevantly; “and I can’t bear people who are what is called above their station. A little education is a dangerous thing, I think, if it makes people priggish and stunts their growth. I notice she never looks one straight in the face.”
“Why should she?” said the painter, unexpectedly, and that rather put an end to the conversation.
“I think of going and taking a little walk in the Park, if I can, after dinner,” Mrs. Elles presently remarked, wishing to show that she did not intend to be a nuisance. “I have spent the whole afternoon there, already, and I think it must be most mysterious and wonderful at night.”
“Are you not afraid to meet the ghost?”
“I should perfectly love to meet it!” cried she, clasping her hands together.