Telegrams called Lady Tilchester away for a little. She is always so full of business.
"I shall send Muriel to entertain you while I answer these," she said.
"I brought her over with me to have a glimpse of Paris, too."
In a few moments the sound of feet running down the passage caused me to turn round as the door opened and a slender child of ten or eleven entered the room. She was facing the light. I happened to be standing with my back to the window.
"How do you do?" she said, sweetly, and put out her little hand.
"Mother says I may come and talk to you."
There are some moments in life too anguishing for words!
Her face is the face of Lady Tilchester, but her eyes—her eyes are grayish-greeny-blue, with black edges, and that look like a cat's, that can see in the dark.
Now I know whom her photograph reminded me of.
There can be only one other pair of such eyes in the world.
I don't remember what I said. Something kind and banal. Then I invented an excuse to go away.
"Give my best love to your mother, dear," I said, "and say I must not stop another moment. I have remembered an important appointment with the dressmaker, and I must fly!"