The arrow came into the room after this fashion.
Kate was sitting in a very feminine attitude. When a man wants to look in any direction, he turns his body and his eye the same way and does it; but women love to cast oblique regards, and this their instinct is a fruitful source of their graceful and characteristic postures.
Kate Peyton was at this moment a statue of her sex. Her fair head leaned gently back against the corner of the window shutter, her pretty feet and fair person in general were opposite George Neville, who sat facing the window but in the middle of the room; her arms, half pendent, half extended, went listlessly aslant her and somewhat to the right of her knees, yet by an exquisite turn of the neck her grey eyes contrived to be looking dreamily out of the window to her left. Still, in this figure, that pointed one way and looked another, there was no distortion; all was easy, and full of that subtle grace we artists call Repose.
But suddenly she dissolved this feminine attitude, rose to her feet, and interrupted her wooer civilly. "Excuse me," said she, "but can you tell me which way that road on the hill leads to?"
Her companion stared a little at so sudden a turn in the conversation, but replied by asking her with perfect good humour what road she meant.
"The one that gentleman on horseback has just taken. Surely," she continued, "that road does not take to Bolton Hall."
"Certainly not," said George, following the direction of her finger, "Bolton lies to the right. That road takes to the sea-coast by Otterbury and Stanhope."
"I thought so," said Kate. "How unfortunate! He cannot know. But indeed how should he?"
"Who cannot know? and what? you speak in riddles, mistress; and how pale you are; are you ill?"
"No, not ill, sir," faltered Kate; "but you see me much discomposed. My cousin Charlton died this day; and the news met me at the very door." She could say no more.