He was a tall, thin, sallow, hooked-nosed gentleman, of middle age, with
a certain air of distinction about him in contrast with his singular
homeliness.
"Miss Harz?" he said, interrogatively, glancing at the card over the
mantel-shelf--near which he had been sitting--above an unseasonable,
smouldering coal-fire.
I bowed affirmatively for all reply. "And I," he continued, "am Prosper
La Vigne, of the '_Less durneer_' settlement" (for thus he pronounced
this anglicized French name) "Maurice County, Georgia," with an air
that seemed to say, "You have heard of me, of course!" and again I
bowed, as my only alternative.
"Lay off your bonnet, if you please," he said, coolly; "I would like to
see the shape of your head before proceeding further. Mine, you see, is
an ill-balanced affair," smiling quizzically in his effort to be
condescending, perhaps. "This is a mere business transaction, you know,"
seeing that I hesitated to comply, "and your phrenological developments
must atone for my deficiencies, or all will go wrong at once--but do as
you like. Now that you have thrown back your veil, I can see that the
brow is a good one. That will suffice, I suppose. I will take the moral
qualities on trial for the nonce. My wife is wholly occupied with her
domestic and private affairs, you must understand, when we are at home,
and much will devolve on you; that is, if we suit one another, which is
dubious.
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