Miss Brill, who had been helping her mother to look out of the window, now came into the garden, which immediately became idyllic.
She was not in any way like the innkeeper's daughter of Comic Opera. She was a schoolgirl of sixteen, with a long, fair plait, a short serge skirt, and a seraphic oval face. She ought to have been called Fanny or Clara. Unluckily her name was Gladys.
She said in a very sweet voice—
"You're quite a stranger, sir." And she amplified the assertion by adding, "You haven't been here not this ever so long."
"I know I haven't, but I've been longing to come."
"Not you!" she said ironically.
She was standing opposite him, with her hands behind her back. Without a hat, in the glaring afternoon sun, with the complexion, pale pink and white, of a china doll that had never made up, she was a refreshing sight after the theatrical world in London, not to speak of society. Vaughan seemed to think so.
"Well, how did you enjoy the play?" he asked.
"It was very kind of you to send us the tickets. Mother enjoyed it."
"You didn't care much for the piece yourself?"