“But, Mr. Whacker,” began Alice, “why is he so silent? You can see he is very intelligent. His smile is singularly subtle, and what little he does say is always admirably well said. ‘A bird that can sing and won’t,’ you know.”
“Suppose you bring him out,” said I.
“Do you know I am positively afraid of him?”
“The idea of being afraid of Mr. Frobisher!” exclaimed Lucy.
“And the idea of Alice’s being afraid of any one!” chimed in Mary.
“But I am,” rejoined Alice. “That way he has of quietly fixing his eyes upon you while you are talking, as though he were serenely looking you through and through, quite upsets me. And then you can’t for the life of you guess what he thinks of you.”
“Ah,” said I, “that’s the trouble, is it? You would like to know what he thinks of you?”
“I didn’t say that,” said she, slightly coloring. “I—”
“I’ll ask him,” said I.
“I said—”