Cousin Letitia was not an angel, but I have mentioned that Mr. Caliph is florid. "You used to be very good to her," Eunice murmured, raising her eyes to him.
He had got up; he was standing there. He bent his head, smiling like an Italian. "You must be the same, my child."
"What can I do?" Eunice asked.
"You can believe in me—you can trust me."
"I do, Mr. Caliph. Try me and see!"
This was unexpectedly gushing, and I instinctively turned away. Behind my back, I don't know what he did to her—I think it possible he kissed her. When you call a girl "my child," I suppose you may kiss her; but that may be only my bold imagination. When I turned round he had taken up his hat and stick, to say nothing of buttoning a very tightly-fitting coat round a very spacious person, and was ready to offer me his hand in farewell.
"I am so glad you are with her. I am so glad she has a companion so accomplished—so capable."
"So capable of what?" I said, laughing; for the speech was absurd, as he knows nothing about my accomplishments.
There is nothing solemn about Mr. Caliph; but he gave me a look which made it appear to me that my levity was in bad taste. Yes, humiliating as it is to write it here, I found myself rebuked by a Jew with fat hands! "Capable of advising her well!" he said, softly.
