“Ever since I was a child,” said Alice, gravely, “I have longed to see Mammoth Cave. My curiosity is now gone. I hope your appetite is on the same scale, Mr. Whacker.”
“You must excuse me. Remember how little I slept last night.”
“It is such a disappointment that he doesn’t hate women!” said Mary.
“Romance!” whispered Alice; for which Mary gave her a love-tap on the cheek.
“Charley, you must know, is an eccentric, and it is of the nature of eccentricities to grow, especially when remarked upon. He was, even as a boy, singularly taciturn, and this trait having been often alluded to by his acquaintance, I think he has grown rather proud of it. Rarely opening his mouth, when he does speak his language is apt to assume a sententious and epigrammatic form; and certain of his crisp utterances about women having been repeated, have given him the reputation of hating the sex. This for example: Few ladies are gentlemen. I suppose, too, that the manner of his life has contributed to strengthen this impression. He never visits young ladies, seeming content with the society of my grandfather and that of two or three of the elderly people among his neighbors.”
“Why, yes,” interposed Lucy, “if he hated women, how could he be so devoted to mother as he is? No weather can prevent his crossing the river for his weekly visits to her.”
“How fond he must be of your mother!” said Mary, with an arch look.
“Oh,” replied Lucy, quietly, “I am not the attraction, though we are warm friends. His visits began when I was ever so little; and as for mother, she loves Mr. Frobisher as dearly as though he were her own son. But you know,” said she, turning to me with a grave look, and speaking in undertones, “there are peculiar reasons for that.”
“Yes,” said I, “I have heard.”
Lucy sighed and was silent.