He never seemed to know what weariness was, when he was looking fixedly at Mrs Pipchin.

He was not fond of her; he was not afraid of her; but in those old, old moods of his, she seemed to have a grotesque attraction for him.

There he would sit, looking at her, and warming his hands, and looking at her, until he sometimes quite confounded Mrs Pipchin, Ogress as she was.

Once she asked him, when they were alone, what he was thinking about.
'You,' said Paul, without the least reserve.
'And what are you thinking about me ?' asked Mrs Pipchin.
'I'm thinking how old you must be,' said Paul.
'You mustn't say such things as that, young gentleman,' returned the dame.

'That'll never do.' 'Why not ?' asked Paul.
'Because it's not polite,' said Mrs Pipchin, snappishly.
'Not polite ?' said Paul.
'No.' 'It's not polite,' said Paul, innocently, 'to eat all the mutton chops and toast, Wickam says.
'Wickam,' retorted Mrs Pipchin, colouring, 'is a wicked, impudent, bold-faced hussy.' 'What's that ?' inquired Paul.
'Never you mind, Sir,' retorted Mrs Pipchin.