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Cranford
·
Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell
133
So,
of
course,
I
stopped
to
speak
to
her
for
Betty’s
sake;
and
she
told
me
that
I
had
really
seen
the
conjuror—
the
gentleman
who
spoke
broken
English
was
Signor
Brunoni
himself.
Just
at
this
moment
he
passed
us
on
the
stairs,
making
such
a
graceful
bow!
in
reply
to
which
I
dropped
a
curtsey—
all
foreigners
have
such
polite
manners,
one
catches
something
of
it.
But
when
he
had
gone
downstairs,
I
bethought
me
that
I
had
dropped
my
glove
in
the
Assembly
Room
(it
was
safe
in
my
muff
all
the
time,
but
I
never
found
it
till
afterwards);
so
I
went
back,
and,
just
as
I
was
creeping
up
the
passage
left
on
one
side
of
the
great
screen
that
goes
nearly
across
the
room,
who
should
I
see
but
the
very
same
gentleman
that
had
met
me
before,
and
passed
me
on
the
stairs,
coming
now
forwards
from
the
inner
part
of
the
room,
to
which
there
is
no
entrance—
you
remember,
Miss
Matty—
and
just
repeating,
in
his
pretty
broken
English,
the
inquiry
if
I
had
any
business
there—
I
don’t
mean
that
he
put
it
quite
so
bluntly,
but
he
seemed
very
determined
that
I
should
not
pass
the
screen—
so,
of
course,
I
explained
about
my
glove,
which,
curiously
enough,
I
found
at
that
very
moment.”
Miss
Pole,
then,
had
seen
the
conjuror—
the
real,
live
conjuror!
and
numerous
were
the
questions
we
all
asked
her.
“Had
he
a
beard?”
“Was
he
young,
or
old?”
“Fair,
or
dark?”
“Did
he
look”—
(unable
to
shape
my
question
prudently,
I
put
it
in
another
form)—
“How
did
he
look?”
In
short,
Miss
Pole
was
the
heroine
of
the
evening,
owing
to
her
morning’s
encounter.
If
she
was
not
the
rose
(that
is
to
say
the
conjuror)
she
had
been
near
it.
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