“Charley, you must know, is an eccentric, and it is of the nature of eccentricities to grow, especially when remarked upon. He was, even as a boy, singularly taciturn, and this trait having been often alluded to by his acquaintance, I think he has grown rather proud of it. Rarely opening his mouth, when he does speak his language is apt to assume a sententious and epigrammatic form; and certain of his crisp utterances about women having been repeated, have given him the reputation of hating the sex. This for example: _Few ladies are gentlemen._ I suppose, too, that the manner of his life has contributed to strengthen this impression. He never visits young ladies, seeming content with the society of my grandfather and that of two or three of the elderly people among his neighbors.” “Why, yes,” interposed Lucy, “if he hated women, how could he be so devoted to mother as he is? No weather can prevent his crossing the river for his weekly visits to her.” “How fond he must be of your mother!” said Mary, with an arch look. “Oh,” replied Lucy, quietly, “I am not the attraction, though we are warm friends. His visits began when I was ever so little; and as for mother, she loves Mr. Frobisher as dearly as though he were her own son. But you know,” said she, turning to me with a grave look, and speaking in undertones, “there are peculiar reasons for that.” “Yes,” said I, “I have heard.” Lucy sighed and was silent. “But, Mr. Whacker,” began Alice, “why _is_ he so silent? You can see he is very intelligent. His smile is singularly subtle, and what little he does say is always admirably well said. ‘A bird that can sing and won’t,’ you know.” “Suppose you bring him out,” said I. “Do you know I am positively afraid of him?” “The idea of being afraid of Mr. Frobisher!” exclaimed Lucy. “And the idea of Alice’s being afraid of any one!” chimed in Mary. “But I am,” rejoined Alice. “That way he has of quietly fixing his eyes upon you while you are talking, as though he were serenely looking you through and through, quite upsets me. And then you can’t for the life of you guess what he thinks of you.” “Ah,” said I, “that’s the trouble, is it? You would like to know what he thinks of you?” “I didn’t say that,” said she, slightly coloring. “I—” “I’ll ask him,” said I. “I said—” “But he won’t tell me, I know.” “What I said—” “Sly rogue that he is, with his eyes fixed upon you—so I understood you to say—all the time that you—even _you_—are talking. How great a portion of his time he—” “Mr. Whacker, you are too absurd for anything!”