“I thought that the romantic charm which would attach to that girl, who seemed to float up to us out of the mist—leaving her wonderful eyes out of the question altogether—would interest all my guests,” said she.
“And so it did, if I may speak for the guests,” said Mrs. Burgoyne. “Yes, we were all delighted for nearly an entire day.”
“I am glad that my aims were not wholly frustrated,” said Lady Innisfail. “But you see the condition we are all in at present.”
“I cannot deny it,” replied Mrs. Burgoyne, with a sigh. “My dear, a new face is almost as fascinating as a new religion.”
“More so to some people—generally men,” said Lady Innisfail. “But who could have imagined that a young thing like that—she has never been presented, she tells me—should turn us all topsy turvy?”
“She has a good deal in her favour,” remarked Mrs. Burgoyne. “She is fresh, her face is strange, she neither plays, sings, nor recites, and she is a marvellously patient listener.”
“That last comes through being the daughter of a literary man,” said Lady Innisfail. “The wives and daughters of poets and historians and the like are compelled to be patient listeners. They are allowed to do nothing else.”
“I dare say. Anyhow that girl has made the most of her time since she came among us.”
“She has. The worst of it is that no one could call her a flirt.”
“I suppose not. But what do you call a girl who is attractive to all men, and who makes all the men grumpy, except the one she is talking to?”