He looked closely at Mrs. Linforth. She was a woman of forty, or perhaps a year or two more. On the other hand, she might be a year or two less. She had the figure of a young woman, and though her dark hair was flecked with grey, he knew that was not to be accounted as a sign of either age or trouble. Yet she looked as if trouble had been no stranger to her. There were little lines about the eyes which told their tale to a shrewd observer, though the face smiled never so pleasantly. In what summer, he wondered, had she come up to the hill station of Mussoorie.
"No," he said. "I did not give you the real explanation. Now I will."
He nodded towards a girl who was at that moment crossing the ball-room towards the door, upon the arm of a young man.
"That's the explanation."
Mrs. Linforth looked at the girl and smiled.
"The explanation seems to be enjoying itself," she said. "Yours?"
"Mine," replied Sir John with evident pride.
"She is very pretty," said Mrs. Linforth, and the sincerity of her admiration made the father glow with satisfaction. Phyllis Casson was a girl of eighteen, with the fresh looks and the clear eyes of her years. A bright colour graced her cheeks, where, when she laughed, the dimples played, and the white dress she wore was matched by the whiteness of her throat. She was talking gaily with the youth on whose arm her hand lightly rested.
"Who is he?" asked Mrs. Linforth.
Sir John raised his shoulders.