“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?” “My father when he was one-and-twenty.” She moved towards the door. Mr. Thomas closed his fat eyes till they became almost slits, simpered still more effectively, as he thought, trusted he might have the pleasure of calling again, and departed. Pauline returned, opened the window and door for ten minutes, and went upstairs. When she saw her father she told him briefly that she had entertained a visitor, and expressed her utter loathing of him in terms so strong that he was obliged to check her. He did not want a quarrel with any of Isaac’s friends. Mr. Thomas, having returned to the college, did not delay to communicate by mysterious hints to his colleagues that he was on visiting terms with a most delightfully charming person, and sunned himself deliciously in their bantering congratulations. About three weeks afterwards he thought he might safely repeat his visit; but he was in a difficulty. He was not quite so stupid as not to see that, the next time he went, it ought to be when her father was present, and yet he preferred his absence. At last he determined he would go about tea-time. He was quite sure that Mr. Coleman would not have returned then; but he could assume that he had, and would propose to wait for him. He therefore duly presented himself at half-past five. “Good-evening, Miss Coleman. Is your father at home?” “No, not yet,” replied Pauline, holding the door doubtingly. “Oh, I am so sorry;” and, to Pauline’s surprise, he entered without any further ceremony. She hardly knew what to do; but she followed him as he walked into the room, where she had just laid the tea-things and put the bread and butter on the table. “Oh, tea!” he cried. “Dear me, it would be very rude of me to ask myself to tea, and yet, do you know, Miss Coleman, I can hardly help it.” “I am afraid my father will not be here till eight.” He sat down. “That is very unfortunate. You will tell him I came on purpose to see him.”