"I'm glad you think so, my lord. So she came. Such a nice young woman she seemed, so 'ard-working and conscientious; one who kept 'erself to 'erself; never a word with the men—never, though she is so pretty."
"Oh, she is pretty, is she?" A faint but horrible suspicion flashed through Cyril's mind.
"Yes, my lord, as pretty as a picture."
"What does she look like?"
"She is tall and slight with dark hair and blue eyes," Mrs. Eversley answered. She was evidently taken aback at her master's interest in a servant's appearance and a certain reserve crept into her voice.
"Could she—would it be possible to mistake her for a lady?" stammered Cyril.
Mrs. Eversley started.
"Well, my lord, it's strange you should ask that, for Douglas, he always has said, 'Mark my words, Miss Prentice isn't what she seems,' and I must say she is very superior, very."
It wasn't, it couldn't be possible, thought Cyril; and yet——
"Did she see much of her ladyship?" he asked.