Ellen felt his arm across her shoulders. It was silly to be afraid of meeting strangers. She lifted her head and went in smiling.
"This is my daughter."
She felt her hand taken in a long, firm grasp, and received a general impression of height and grayness and alertness and very bright eyes. She looked up into them and smiled, feeling the blood rush to her cheeks. She was sensitive and she had as yet received few impressions which were not those of childhood. This stranger, who was younger than her father and much older than herself, was the first person like her father whom she had ever met.
"Your daughter!" said a low voice.
Then she heard another voice, and courage vanished and embarrassment returned. It was that of a woman, seated in her father's chair, and looking about with appraising eyes. She was small, and the old chair in which she sat seemed much too large for her. Ellen saw in a flash the handsome and slightly bizarre dress, through the yoke and sleeves of which her flesh showed faintly pink, the strange and pretty face with brows which almost met. It was not in the least a happy face, but Ellen was not critical. Hilda was not interested in this plain ménage or in Stephen's old acquaintance, recalled thus suddenly to his mind. But it pleased her for the moment to be friendly.
"Come and shake hands with me," said she, and Ellen obeyed, feeling young and awkward and ill at ease.
"Do you go to school?"
"I go to school to my father."
"Have you brothers or sisters?"
"I have—"