He looked like a man who was not in the habit of acting hastily or impulsively--who never did any thing without having previously fully counted the cost.
"What were you saying, Mrs.Ferguson ?" said he, addressing her with the grave and somewhat formal politeness which was his natural manner, but which always somewhat awed that rather vulgar, though kind-hearted and well-meaning woman.
She put the paper into his hands.

"It's the notice for 'The Times;' James and I made it up last night.

James thought it would save you trouble, master--" Mrs.Ferguson always hesitated between this common University custom of address and plain, "Dr.Grey." "Thank you; Mr.Ferguson is always kind," returned the Master of Saint Bede's.
"You see," continued Mrs.Ferguson, lowering her tone to a confidential whisper, "I thought it was better only to put 'Edward Oakley, Esq.,' and nothing more.

Wouldn't you like it to be so, sir ?" "I should like it to be exactly as--" he paused, and the color rushed violently over his thin, worn, and yet sensitive face, as sensitive as if he had been a young man still--"exactly as Mrs.Grey pleases." Mrs.Grey! At the sound of her new name Christian started, and she, too, turned scarlet.

Not the sweet, rosy blush of a bride, but the dark red flush of sharp physical or mental pain, which all her self-control could not hide.
"Poor dear! poor dear! this is a great change for her, and only a year since her father died," said Mrs.Ferguson, still in that mysterious, apologetic whisper.