“Do you think so?” said the girl, half dreamily.
“I am sure of it.”
Agatha began brushing her hair again.
“What makes you think so?” she inquired through the snaky canopy.
“He never took his eyes off you when you were playing the Count’s accompaniment.”
The girl suddenly rose and went to the dressing-table. The candles there were lighted, one on each side of the mirror. Agatha saw that her mother was still admiring her bedroom slippers. Then she looked at the reflection of her own face with the smooth hair hanging straight down over either shoulder. She gazed long and curiously as if seeking something in the pleasant reflection.
“Did she say anything more about Fitz?” she asked suddenly, with an obvious change of the subject which Mrs. Ingham-Baker did not attempt to understand. She was not a subtle woman.
“Nothing.”
Agatha came back and sat down.
“And you are quite sure she said exactly what you have told me, about not expecting to live for ever.”