But Mr. Sylvester with a hurried glance at the closing eyes of his wife, requested on the contrary that she would explain herself more definitely. “Ona will pardon the delay,” said he, with a set, strained politeness that called up the least little quiver of suppressed sarcasm about the rosy infantile lips that he evidently did not consider it worth his while to notice.
“But that is all,” said Paula. However she repeated as nearly as she could just what the boy’s father had said. At the conclusion Mr. Sylvester rose.
“What kind of a looking man was he?” said that gentleman as he crossed to the window.
“Well, as nearly as I can describe, he was tall, dark and seedy, with a shock of black hair and a pair of black whiskers that floated on the wind as he walked. He was evidently of the order of decayed gentleman, and his manner of talking, especially in the profuse use he made of his arms and hands, was decidedly foreign. Yet his speech was pure and without accent.”
Mr. Sylvester’s face as he asked the next question was comparatively cheerful. “Was the other man with whom he was talking, as dark and foreign as himself?”
“O no, he was round and jovial, a little too insinuating perhaps, in his way of speaking to ladies, but otherwise a well enough appearing man.”
Mr. Sylvester bowed and looked at his watch. (Why do gentlemen always consult their watches even in the face of the clock?) “Ona, you are right,” said he, “it is time you were dressing for dinner.” And concluding with a word or two of sympathy as to the peculiar nature of Paula’s adventures as he called them, he hastened from the room and proceeded to his little refuge above.