She was watching him anxiously.
“I’ll try very hard, if some one will only give me a chance!” said she.
Poor little thing! Such a sweet, well bred little voice!
“I know,” said Mandeville earnestly; “but—you see, my sister wants—”
For instinct warned him that this delightful creature would not do.
“You see—” he went on, but stopped short, because the poor little thing’s black eyes filled with tears.
“I’m only eighteen,” she said, “and all alone in the world.”
This was more than he could endure. He was silent for a moment, trying honestly to weigh the merits of the case. She was obviously well bred, she spoke French, she could sew, she could read aloud, she could play the piano; but all these qualifications became confused in his mind with the quite irrelevant facts that she was only eighteen and all alone in the world, and that she had those extraordinary, those marvelous eyes.
“I’ll take you to see my sister,” he said, at last, for he thought that his sister could not fail to be touched by so much youth, beauty, and innocence.