"But now that I have met you I can readily understand."
The same look through the glasses; sphinx-like, she seemed impervious
both to depreciation and compliment.
"And she has left you alone all the morning? I am afraid you must have
been bored."
"Thank you. I had my work."
It was an exquisite piece of art needlework. Water-lilies and yellow
irises on a purple ground. She confessed it was her own design.
"And books?"
He took up Schlegel's _Philosophy of History_ in the original.
"You read German?"
"O yes."
"And Italian? and French? and Sanscrit--without doubt?"
"Not quite; but I have looked into Max Mueller, and know something of
Monier Williams."
And this was one of Lady Gayfeather's girls! Was this a new process,
the last dodge in the perpetual warfare between maidens and mankind?
Harold looked at the prodigy.
In appearance she was quite unlike the conventional type of a London
young lady of fashion. Her fresh dimpled cheeks wore roses and a
pearly bloom that spoke of healthy hours and a tranquil life; her
dress was quiet almost to plainness; there was nothing modern in the
style of her coiffure; Lobb would not have been proud of her boots.
Her fair white hands were innocent of rings; she wore no jewelry;
there was no gold or silver about her, except for the gold-rimmed
glasses that made so curious a contrast to her young face, with its
merry eyes and frame of mutinous curls.
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