“Charlie Brandon’s daughter? Very well–saw her at Newport some time ago. Lily-white style–all eyes and hair.”
“You ought to remember her. You used to rave about her, and you nearly ruined yourself in roses. You will have another chance; she is going to spend the winter with me.”
“Not really?” ejaculated Mr. Vancouver, in some surprise, as he again sat down upon the sofa.
“Yes; you know she is all alone in the world now.”
“What? Is her mother dead too?”
“She died last spring, in Paris. I thought you knew.”
“No,” said Vancouver, thoughtfully. “How awfully sad!”
“Poor girl,” said Mrs. Wyndham; “I thought it would do her good to be among live people, even if she does not go out.”
“When is she coming?” There was a show of interest about the question. “She is here now,” answered Mrs. Sam.
“Dear me!” said Vancouver. “May I have another cup?” His hostess began the usual series of operations necessary to produce a second cup of tea.