The slight tinge of pinky color on the cheeks of the beautiful Mrs. Desfrayne deepened visibly, although she sat with her back to the window.
“How old is the young lady?” she asked, in a subdued tone.
“Eighteen or nineteen.”
“Is she—has she any father or mother?”
“Both are dead. She is, I understand, alone in the world.”
“Have you seen her?”
“No.”
“Do you know what she is like?”
“I am as ignorant of everything concerning her, personally, as you are yourself, mother.”
“Is she pretty?”