“Are you alone all day?”
“Generally, except on Sunday. Father does not get home till late.”
“Dear me! And you are not dull nor afraid?”
“Dull or afraid! Why?”
“Oh, well,” he sniggered, “dull—why, young ladies, you know, usually like society. At least,” and he laughed a little greasy laugh at his wit, “we like theirs. And then—afraid—well, if my sister were so attractive”—he looked to see if this pretty compliment was effective—“I should not like her to be without anybody in the house.”
Pauline became impatient. She rose. “When you come again,” she said, “I hope my father will be here.”
Mr. Thomas rose too. He had begun to feel awkward. For want of something better to say, he asked whose was the portrait over the mantelpiece.
“Major Cartwright.”
“Major Cartwright! Dear me, is that Major Cartwright?” He had never heard of him before, but he did not like to profess ignorance of a Major.
“And this likeness of this young gentleman?” he inquired, looking at Pauline sideways, with an odious simper on his lips. “Nobody I know, I suppose?”