Figure, little and lean—hair of a dirty drab color which we see in string—small light gray eyes, sly and restless, and deeply sunk in the head—prominent cheekbones, and a florid complexion—an inquisitive nose, turning up at the end—a large mouth and a servile smile—raw-looking hands, decorated with black mittens—a misfitting white jacket and a limp skirt—manners familiar—temper cleverly hidden—voice too irritating to be mentioned. Whose portrait is this? It is the portrait of Miss Jillgall, taken in words.
Her true character is not easy to discover; I suspect that it will only show itself little by little. That she is a born meddler in other people’s affairs, I think I can see already. I also found out that she trusted to flattery as the easiest means of making herself agreeable. She tried her first experiment on myself.
“You charming girl,” she began, “your bright face encourages me to ask a favor. Pray make me useful! The one aspiration of my life is to be useful. Unless you employ me in that way, I have no right to intrude myself into your family circle. Yes, yes, I know that your father has opened his house and his heart to me. But I dare not found any claim—your name is Helena, isn’t it? Dear Helena, I dare not found any claim on what I owe to your father’s kindness.”
“Why not?” I inquired.
“Because your father is not a man—”
I was rude enough to interrupt her: “What is he, then?”
“An angel,” Miss Jillgall answered, solemnly. “A destitute earthly creature like me must not look up as high as your father. I might be dazzled.”
This was rather more than I could endure patiently. “Let us try,” I suggested, “if we can’t understand each other, at starting.”
Miss Jillgall’s little eyes twinkled in their bony caverns. “The very thing I was going to propose!” she burst out.
“Very well,” I went on; “then, let me tell you plainly that flattery is not relished in this house.”