"My name is Phillipa--to my friends, and as such I count you, dear
Mrs. Purling; perhaps some day I may be allowed to say the same of
your son."
She spoke rapidly, with the fluent ease natural to a well-bred woman.
In the subdued light of the cosy room Harold made out a tall, slight
figure, well set off by the tight-fitting ulster; she carried her head
proudly, and seemed aristocratic to her finger-tips.
"I should have known you anywhere, Mr. Purling," she went on, without
a pause. "You are so like your dear mother. You have the same eyes."
It was a wonder she did not use the adjective "sweet"; for her tone
clearly implied that she admired them.
"I hear you are desperately and astoundingly clever," she continued,
like the brook flowing on for ever. "They tell me your pamphlet on
vivisection was quite masterly. How proud you must be, Mrs. Purling,
to hear such civil things said of his books!"
"Do you take sugar?" Harold asked, as he put a cup of tea into a hand
exquisitely gloved.
She looked up at him sharply, but failed to detect any satire behind
his words.
Harold thought that there was too much sugar and butter about her
altogether. Even thus early he felt antipathetic; yet, when they were
seated at dinner, and had an opportunity of observing her at leisure,
he could not deny that she was handsome, in a striking, queenly sort
of way; but he thought her complexion was too pale, and, at times,
when off her guard, a worn-out, harassed look came over her face, and
a tinge of melancholy clouded her dark eyes.
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