“Sure?” he asked.
“Quite!” she answered.
She was tall and fair, with a certain stateliness of carriage which harmonised wonderfully with a thoughtful and pale face. She was not exactly pretty, but gracious and womanly, with honest blue eyes that looked on men and women alike. She was probably twenty-eight years of age; her manner was that of a woman rather than of a girl—of one who was in life and not on the outskirts.
“We rather pride ourselves,” she said, leading the way into the drawing-room, “upon having the best house in Loango. You will, I think, be more comfortable here than anywhere.”
She turned and looked at him with a slow, grave smile. She was noticing that, of the men who had been in this drawing-room, none had seemed so entirely at his ease as this one.
“I must ask you to believe that I was thinking of your comfort and not of my own.”
“Yes, I know you were,” she answered. “Our circle is rather limited, as you will find, and very few of the neighbours have time to think of their houses. Most of them are missionaries, and they are so busy; they have a large field, you see.”
“Very—and a weedy one, I should think.”
He was looking round, noting with well-trained glance the thousand little indescribable touches that make a charming room. He knew his ground. He knew the date and the meaning of every little ornament—the title and the writer of each book—the very material with which the chairs were covered; and he knew that all was good—all arranged with that art which is the difference between ignorance and knowledge.
“I see you have all the new books.”