There were three windows on one side of the room, and a glass door at the farther end leading into a spacious conservatory, whence came a blaze of geranium scarlet to the eye. Near this door a basket-table held cup and saucers of Crown Derby china, a cosy of Indian embroidery hiding the teapot. The room contained handsome ornaments, as well as valuable oil-paintings, and the furniture was good, though somewhat old, and of a subdued tone of colouring.
"Shall I be recognised? Don't introduce me," Harvey had said outside, and Mr. Dalrymple complied, though he scarcely seemed to hear the words. He crossed slowly to a favourite armchair, absorbed and silent still.
Harvey's first glance was one of pure curiosity. He had at once to confess to himself that neither Sutton, Marjory, nor his great-uncle had been guilty of exaggeration. No tamer adjective than "lovely" would do to describe the girl coming to meet him.
She was only nineteen, not very tall, but slightly over middle height, and looking taller from her slenderness. The simple white dress was unrelieved by any colour, except that of a blue enamel brooch. The little head was well set on the little throat; and short brown hair, in wavy natural clusters, set off a skin of peculiar fairness. The nose was a trifle too short, but that is a fault on the right side for a woman; the mouth was a trifle too wide; and the blue eyes were not large.
All this, however, gives a poor idea of the true Hermione. For the attractiveness, about which none who knew her failed to speak, dwelt more in expression than in outline, more in manner than in form.
Harvey had seen many pretty girls in his lifetime but he had never seen aught before quite like this: He cast his recollections back to the child of eight years earlier, and marvelled.
There was a radiant happiness about Hermione's brow, a smiling sunshine in the eyes, a buoyant sweetness of look and bearing, indescribably fair. Form and colouring might perhaps have been matched elsewhere, though not easily, but the wonderful joyousness and grace of the whole being came upon Harvey as something unique. She seemed to be one whose life hitherto had passed without a shadow. Marjory Fitzalan's face carried already the traces of battling and pain, but Hermione's bore no such sign.
She gave one glance at her grandfather, one glance at Harvey, then drew near, her lips parted.
"Don't you know me, Hermione?" asked Harvey, and she sprang to greet him with a flash of delight.
"Oh, I knew, I knew!" she cried. "I was sure it must be Harvey himself! I knew you would come. Dear Harvey, I am so glad."