“No. I spent the morning with my sisters, and in the afternoon I had to see a lady in Chelsea.”
“Your sisters are older than yourself?”
“Yes, some years older.”
“Is it long since you went to live apart from them?”
“We have never had a home of our own since I was quite a child.”
And, after a moment’s hesitation, she went on to give a brief account of her history. Widdowson listened with the closest attention, his lips twitching now and then, his eyes half closed. But for cheek-bones that were too prominent and nostrils rather too large, he was not ill-featured. No particular force of character declared itself in his countenance, and his mode of speech did not suggest a very active brain. Speculating again about his age, Monica concluded that he must be two or three and forty, in spite of the fact that his grizzled beard argued for a higher figure. He had brown hair untouched by any sign of advanced life, his teeth were white and regular, and something—she could not make clear to her mind exactly what—convinced her that he had a right to judge himself comparatively young.
“I supposed you were not a Londoner,” he said, when she came to a pause.
“How?”
“Your speech. Not,” he added quickly, “that you have any provincial accent. And even if you had been a Londoner you would not have shown it in that way.”
He seemed to be reproving himself for a blunder, and after a short silence asked in a tone of kindness,—