But there's a person in the hall—a very odd sort of man—waiting to see him, who won't be sent away. Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. Her long incarceration at the convent in Blaye had taught her to be dismissive of her own appearance. Then for a time she sat very still. “Sure. On Saturday he went to that there Mr Charvill’s house. And now she was witnessing or observing the complicated machinery of civilization through which they had come, at length to land on the beach of her island. Quite!” He sat in the arm-chair and took tea, and consumed several of the extra cakes which she had sent out for and talked to her and expressed himself, looking very earnestly at her with his deep-set eyes, and carefully avoiding any crumbs on his mustache the while.
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