“Who are you? What is your name?”
“Name?” taken wholly by surprise. “Ah—it is Hobart Fenton. And”—automatically—“this is my sister Charlotte. The gentleman over there is Mr. Jerome.”
“I am glad to know you, Hobart,” with perfect simplicity and apparent pleasure; “and you, Charlotte,” passing an arm round my sister's neck; “and you—Mister.” Evidently she thought the title of “mister” to be Jerome's first name.
Then she went on to say, her eyes coming back to mine:
“Why do you look at me that way, Hobart?”
Just like that! I felt my cheeks go hot and cold by turns. For a moment I was helpless; then I made up my mind to be just as frank and candid as she.
“Because you're so good to look at!” I blurted out. “I never appreciated my eyesight as I do right now!”
“I am glad,” she returned, simply and absolutely without a trace of confusion or resentment. “I know that I rather like to look at you—too.”
Another stunned silence. And this time I didn't notice any change in the temperature of my face; I was too busily engaged in searching the depths of those warm blue eyes.
She didn't blush, or even drop her eyes. She smiled, however, a gentle, tremulous smile that showed some deep feeling behind her unwavering gaze.