“Yes, she has that indescribable lissomeness and grace which she doubtless inherits with her Southern blood. I was attracted, too, by the delicacy of her hands and feet, of which she is pardonably proud. But that scar or something disfigures one hand.”
Robert spoke up quickly: “That is a birth-mark, I think it is a fern leaf.”
“A birth-mark! Oh hopelessly plebeian, don’t you think?”
“Your Miss Baxter has a very vivid one upon her neck.”
“I beg pardon, then, birthmarks are just the thing.”
Frost had commenced in a bantering mood, but now and again his voice would take a more serious tone.
“Joking apart, Miss Bell is charming. She is, thanks to God, a being out of the ordinary. She has a style unstinted and all her own. I have upon several occasions made myself agreeable, partly for my own gratification and partly because I saw in her eyes that she admired me.”
Frost leaned back in intended mock conceit, no small portion of which appeared genuine.
Robert gave way to laughter, in which just a tinge of annoyance might have been detected.