He stood in the doorway looking at her for a minute or two before he spoke. She was a tall girl, with fine shoulders, and beautiful arms and hands. He noticed them particularly as she held up the cloth, shook it out, and folded it. A clear, fine-grained skin, with a colour like that of a June rose in her cheeks, well-opened, calm-looking, grey-blue eyes, a mass of golden hair, almost too heavy for her head; a well-cut profile, and rather stately bearing, made Elizabeth Murray a noticeable person even amongst women more strictly beautiful than herself. She was poorly and plainly dressed, but poverty and plainness became her, throwing into strong relief the beauty of her rose-tints and finely-moulded figure. She did not start when she saw Percival at the door; she smiled at him frankly, and asked why he had come.
"Do you know anything of the Luttrells?" he asked, abruptly.
"The Luttrells of Netherglen? They are my third cousins."
"You never speak of them."
"I never saw them."
"Do you know what has happened to one of them."
"Yes. He shot his brother by mistake a few days ago."
"I was thinking rather of the one who was killed," said Percival. "Where did you see the account? In the newspaper?"
"Yes." Then she hesitated a little. "And I had a letter, too."
"From the Luttrells themselves?"