OLD MR. BROOKE.
“HAVE you really walked all the way from Woodleigh?” asked Mrs. St. John.
“That is nothing,” averred Joan.
She was conscious of Mr. Brooke’s eyes upon her—fine black eyes still, remarkable in contrast with his snowy hair—and she raised her own to meet them. His gaze was searching and perplexed. Joan’s brows bent angrily.
“How far off is Woodleigh?” asked Mr. Brooke.
“Four or five miles, I believe,” Mrs. St John said. “I have only driven round there once or twice. Not keeping my own carriage, I cannot manage distances often.”
“And you do not think anything of an eight miles’ walk, or more?” said Mr. Brooke, directing his remark to Joan.
“No,” Joan said, with sufficient brevity.
Mr. Brooke’s eyes were on her still in a persistent gaze much to her indignation and discomfiture. She turned round with her face to the fire, and her back to him, ostensibly for the better drying of her wet skirts. Nessie at once did the same.
“Sisters are not always alike in face,” Mr. Brooke remarked deliberately. “But I do not think I ever witnessed so remarkable a dissimilarity as in the case of these two young ladies. It is quite extraordinary.”