I am afraid John was disappointed at my "probably." I am afraid that when he stood at our window, contemplating the little group which filled up our wicket-gate, he missed some one out of the three—which, I suspect, was neither Mrs. Tod nor yet the baby.
"I like her face very much better now, David. Do you?"
It was a very curious fact, which I never noticed till afterwards, that though there had been some lapse of time before I hazarded this remark, we both intuitively supplied the noun to that indefinite personal pronoun.
"A good—nay, a noble face; though still, with those irregular features, I can't—really I can't—call her beautiful."
"Nor I."
"She bowed with remarkable grace, too. I think, John, for the first time in our lives, we may say we have seen a LADY."
"Most certainly a lady."
"Nay, I only meant that, girl as she is, she is evidently accustomed to what is called 'society.' Which makes it the more likely that her father is the Mr. March who was cousin to the Brithwoods. An odd coincidence."
"A very odd coincidence."
After which brief reply John relapsed into taciturnity.