The Professor accordingly rang the bell, which was answered by a young woman whom he had never seen before, all the waiting in his room being usually performed by Mrs. Battleby. The stranger was about eighteen years of age, and looked as if she had just been transported from a stack-yard, or a cow-house, and set down in Soho. She was not at all attractive to the sight. She had a thick, ungainly figure, with a waist like a tar-barrel, and huge hands and feet. Her bosom was unusually developed for so young a girl--her face was broad and flat--her mouth wide--her nose short and turned-up, and her colour coarse and high. But to counteract all these failings, Hannah possessed a wonderful pair of grey eyes, set wide apart in a low forehead--eyes that looked you through and through, and yet had a far-away dreamy gaze that was very provoking to Mrs. Battleby who declared the girl was always more than half asleep. Hannah also rejoiced in a thick mass of light brown hair, which made her head seem much too large for her body. Taken altogether, she was uncouth, but there was an innocence and simplicity in her gaze which was very attractive when one had the time to discover it. As she stood silent on the threshold of the Professor’s room, the men both thought she was one of the stupidest, most countrified lasses they had ever come across. “Are you Hannah?” asked Ricardo, and on receiving an answer in the affirmative, he added, “Well! your mistress said you were to clear away my supper tray, and when you have done that, you can bring me up a jug of hot water, and then you must not disturb us again to-night. Do you understand?” For the girl was looking at him so stolidly, that it seemed doubtful if she had even heard what he said to her. “Yes, Sir!” she answered, in a dull, low voice, as she piled all the plates and dishes on the top of one another, preparatory to making a grand smash if she should happen to slip going downstairs again. “What a lout!” was Steinberg’s observation, as Hannah disappeared. “Just so,” said Ricardo, “a simple piece of clay--a heifer newly driven from pasture--an animal with all her senses undeveloped--but not without a soul! Did you remark her eyes? They are unfathomable! I should be curious, had I the time, to find out what lies beneath them.” “Holloa!” cried Steinberg, with a laugh, “take care of yourself, Professor! Finding out what lies beneath women’s eyes, is dangerous work! You might even animate this clod in your researches.” Ricardo regarded him reproachfully. “Do you know me so little, as to jest on such a subject?” he said. “I, whose whole soul is bent on one object only. Steinberg, will you believe me when I say, that since Leonora died beneath my hand, I have never looked at another woman with even a semblance of the same feelings? I was only thirty when I drove her soul from me, but I have been widowed ever since, and shall remain so to my grave!”