"Yes, very fine," Dorothea answered. She wore her neat dark brown costume, the brown hat, with its suggestion of red, suiting well her rather short and rounded face, and delicate features. The wistful eyes shone as usual through glasses, the set of which on her little nose, combined with the forward carriage of her head, gave a peculiar air of keen attention. There was something about Dorothea altogether out of the common—singularly free from self-consciousness, markedly quiet, the gloved hands lying still, with a lady-like absence of fidgets. She seemed to be neither anxious to push her way, nor susceptible to Emmeline's chilling manner.
Mervyn found her interesting; partly perhaps out of compassion for the charming old lady, Mrs. Effingham; partly perhaps from a perverse love of opposition, inclining him to go the contrary way to his sister; but partly also from a certain quickness of appreciation. He stood up politely to hand cake and tea, and when everybody's wants were supplied, he carelessly took possession of a chair on the other side of Dorothea.
"I suppose you are an experienced Londoner," came in subdued tones.
"I! O no," Dorothea answered. "I came home a week before Christmas."
"From—?" questioningly.
"School."
"Ah!" He had wondered what her age might be. "Not in town?"
"In Scotland. I have not been in London for years."
"And you like it?"
"I like St. Paul's—if one need not go through it merely as a sight."