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He laughed sometimes not often, and then somewhat sarcastically but he did not make himself ridiculous. His amour propre was most intense. He appreciated fun, but did not care that it should be at his expense. He was grave, irritable and splenetic; but never comical. A braggart, a rough-rider, an aristocrat; but never a masquerader. That was the old-time idea.
When visitors were by especially the neighboring women who likewise remembered Sarah Honey the masquerader often spoke in a way to reduce to a minimum any suspicion that she was not the rightful Ida May. Even a visit from Annabell Coffin "she who was a Cuttle" went off without a remark being made which would yield a grain of doubt. Mrs.
"I thank you for your hospitality, dear lady," said the Reverend Prometheus, "and I trust I may have the pleasure of bettering our acquaintance." As he bowed himself out he discreetly dropped his gloves behind a cushion on the sofa. "This way, please," said Jane. "This way." The door had scarcely closed upon the retreating masquerader when once again Barraclough slipped into the room.
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