Bressant

Supper was ready: Cornelia surveyed the table for the last time, to make

sure it was all right. It was an extension-table, but the spare leaves

had been removed, and it was reduced to a circle. A mellow western light

from that portion of the sky unswathed in clouds streamed through the

window, and did duty as a lamp. The cloth was white, and tapered down in

soft folds at the corners; a pleasant profusion of sparkling china and

silver, and of savory eatables, filled the circumference of the board,

leaving just space enough to operate in, and no more. In the centre of

the table, and perceptible both to eyes and nose on entering the room,

was a tall glass dish, lined with wet green leaves, and pyramided with

red strawberries. A comfortable steam ascended from the nose of the

tea-pot, and vanished upward in the gloom of the ceiling; the brown

toast seemed crackling to be eaten; the smooth-cut slices of marbled

beef lay overlapping one another in silent plenteousness; and the knives

and forks glistened to begin. Cornelia opened the entry-door, and called

across to her papa in the study that supper was ready. Then she took up

her position behind her chair, with one hand resting on its back, and a

silent determination that the visitor, whoever he was, should be

impressed with her dignity, condescension, and good looks.

"This is my daughter Cornelia. Mr. Bressant is going to be a pupil of

mine, my dear," said the professor, as he and Bressant advanced into the

room.

He gave his hand an introductory wave in Cornelia's direction as he

spoke, but probably did not speak loud enough to be distinctly beard by

his guest. Nevertheless, seeing the motion and the lady, Bressant

inclined forward his shoulders with an elastic readiness of bearing

which was customary with him, in spite of his unusual stature, and then

took his place at the table without bestowing any further attention upon

her. It passed through Cornelia's mind, as she lifted the tea-pot, that

Mr. Bressant was outrageously conceited, and should be taken down at the

first opportunity. She had made a very graceful courtesy, and it was not

to be overlooked in that way with impunity.

"Milk and sugar, sir?" said she, interrogatively, raising her eyes to

the young man's face with a somewhat gratuitous formality of manner, and

holding a piece of sugar suspended over the cup.

Bressant had certainly been looking in her direction as she spoke; he

had the opposite place to her at table; but instead of replying, even

with a motion of the head, he, after a moment, turned to Professor

Valeyon, who was gently oscillating himself in the rocking-chair he

always occupied at meals, and asked him whether he knew any thing about

a place in town called "Abbie's Boarding-house."