"See you in
London, sooner or later," said he. As if anyone could want to see such a
disagreeable old thing! Yet, perhaps, if I but knew, the Mock Dragon's
character may be the nobler of the two. If I were to judge by
appearances, I should have liked the real Dragon's looks, and thought
from first sight that he was rather a brave, fine, high-principled
person, even unselfish. Whereas I know from all Ellaline has told me
that his qualities are quite the reverse of these.

We were going to the Grand Hotel, and driving there he pumped up a few
perfunctory sort of questions about school, the way grown-up people who
don't understand children talk to little girls. You know: "Do you like
your lessons? What do you do on holidays? What is your middle name?"
sort of thing. I was afraid I should laugh, so I asked him questions
instead; and all the time he seemed to be studying me in a puzzled,
surprised way, as if I were a duck that had just stepped out of a
chicken egg, or a goblin in a Nonconformist home. (If he keeps on doing
this, I shall _have_ to find out what he means by it, or _burst_.)

I asked him about his sister, as I thought Bengal might be a sore
subject, and he appeared to think that I already knew something of her.
If Ellaline does know, she forgot to tell me; and I hope other things
like that won't be continually cropping up, or my nerves won't stand it.
_I_ shall take to throwing spoons and tea-cups.

He reminded me of her name being Mrs. Norton, and that she's a widow. He
hadn't expected her to come over, he said, and he was surprised to get
her telegram, but no doubt he'd find out that she'd a pretty good
reason. And it was nothing to be astonished at, her not meeting him at
the Gare de Lyon, for she invariably missed people when she went to
railway stations. It had been a characteristic of hers since youth. When
they were both young they were often in Paris together, for they had
French cousins (Ellaline's mother's people, I suppose), and then they
stopped at the Grand Hotel. He hadn't been there, though, he added, for
nearly twenty years; and had been out of England, without coming back,
for fifteen. That made him seem old, talking of what happened twenty
years ago--almost my whole life. Yet he doesn't look more than
thirty-five at most. I wonder does the climate of Bengal preserve
people, like flies in amber? Perhaps he's really sixty, and has this
unnatural appearance of youth.

"Does Mrs. Norton know