This handsome speech produced no impression on her whatever. She continued staring at me for some moments, in a way that appeared to me almost indelicate; then sneered, tossed her head, and asked me “to hand her that book near my elbow on the table.” I obeyed her, and noticed that her father watched her with curiosity and surprise. She kept the book open in her lap, I believe, as an excuse not to talk; for, several times, whilst her father and I conversed, I caught her watching me, though she always took care to avert her eyes and curl her lip when I glanced at her. I thought her a perfect Tartar, and wondered at my uncle Tom’s extraordinary want of penetration, in supposing that I could ever be brought to couple myself with such a woman. She never opened her lips until the Irish man-servant, whose name I afterwards learnt was O’Twist, announced dinner. I thought it odd that my cousin made no change in her dress for the table, but supposed that her love of ease and freedom had long ago triumphed over all fiddling restraints of etiquette. I rose and offered her my arm; but as I approached, she swept her dress away from me, and exclaimed in a low tone, “When I want a crutch, I’ll buy one. I have still the use of both my legs, thank God!” I will leave you to imagine my feelings. “She may have a handsome person,” thought I, “but I’ll be hanged if she hasn’t the soul of a kangaroo!” My uncle, who was near the door when she made her overwhelming remark, and therefore could not have heard it, led the way to the dining-room. I caught him looking behind as if rather surprised that I hadn’t his daughter on my arm; but this, after a moment’s reflection, I concluded to be a mere fancy. She took a seat opposite me, and whilst her father said grace, smiled over her shoulder at O’Twist, whose eyes were on me. I had very little doubt that she was not in her right senses, and marvelled at the blindness of her father in attributing virtues to her which seemed so entirely absent from her nature, that I could not conceive how he had imagined their existence. He made as good a host as Tom; but though the dinner was first-rate, the wines superior to any my uncle Tom had, I never in all my life felt so miserable nor enjoyed my food less. That confounded O’Twist, who stood behind his master’s chair, scarcely ever removed his eyes from my face. I tried once to stare him out, but the longer I looked the more intent became his gaze. The discomfort his groggy eyes caused me I cannot describe. What, I kept thinking, _what_ is there about me to provoke such insolence? Am I in a madhouse? Have I mistaken my way, and found a welcome in an asylum for lunatics?