“Yes,” she answered, with a faint, but entirely courteous, smile. “It is. I hope you are very well.”
She held out her hand. “A delicious hand,” was what he said to himself, as he took it. And what eyes for a girl to have in her head were those which looked out at him between shadows. Was there a hint of the devil in them? He thought so—he hoped so, since she had descended on the place in this way. But WHAT the devil was the meaning of her being on the spot at all? He was, however, far beyond the lack of astuteness which might have permitted him to express this last thought at this particular juncture. He was only betrayed into stupid mistakes, afterwards to be regretted, when rage caused him utterly to lose control of his wits. And, though he was startled and not exactly pleased, he was not in a rage now. The eyelashes and the figure gave an agreeable fillip to his humour. Howsoever she had come, she was worth looking at.
“How could one expect such a delightful thing as this?” he said, with a touch of ironic amiability. “It is more than one deserves.”
“It is very polite of you to say that,” answered Betty.
He was thinking rapidly as he stood and gazed at her. There were, in truth, many things to think of under circumstances so unexpected.
“May I ask you to excuse my staring at you?” he inquired with what Rosy had called his “awful, agreeable smile.” “When I saw you last you were a fierce nine-year-old American child. I use the word 'fierce' because—if you'll pardon my saying so—there was a certain ferocity about you.”
“I have learned at various educational institutions to conceal it,” smiled Betty.
“May I ask when you arrived?”
“A short time after you went abroad.”
“Rosalie did not inform me of your arrival.”