“For all your clever counterfeit, my good girl,” reflected Sir Everard, “you haven’t the ring of the guinea gold.”
Yet he reproached himself for the accusation. Here was, after all, no counterfeit; very good metal of its kind. “Fine yellow brass,” thought he with a chuckle. “All in a good sense, my dear.”
What was she? From whence and whither speeding? Not an actress. That fresh, close-textured skin had never known paint on its flower-like surface. The cheeks were not even rouged; indeed, after the flush of bustle, the colour of them was now settling back in a curious ivory pallor, which went well with the ardent hair. No fine lady’s young woman; every movement had betrayed conscious independence. A shop-girl? The wife of some small merchant? Nay, ’twas the impersonation of maiden liberty, and what shop-girl could encompass such a wealth and detail of modishness?
She caught his gaze upon her, leaned forward and smiled. He had already noticed that her smile was rather dazzling. He quite blinked to find it addressed to himself.
“I trust, sir,” said she, “my bandboxes do not incommode you?”
“By no means, madam,” answered he civilly; and moved his long, thin legs back a further fraction beneath the seat.
“I haven’t been home,” said she, “for four years, and luggage do grow when one has five young sisters at home, sir, and presents run to hats.”
“To hats?” he repeated, with that interested air that obviates the audacity of a question.
“Along, sir,” said Miss Pounce, and her smile broadened, “with me being in the millinery business.”
She drew herself up with a very pretty and, to his mind, becoming pride.