'Would you ever imagine, cousin Roland, that Annot and I are just about an age? she looks like fifteen, and I was eighteen my last birthday.'
'Eighteen,' thought Roland Lindsay, toying with a few grapes; 'can it be?—that golden-haired dolly—old enough to be the heroine of a novel or a tragedy—old enough to be a wife and the mistress of a household? By Jove, it seems incredible.'
And as she prattled away of London, the Park and the Row, what plays were 'on' at the different theatres, of new dresses, sights and scenes, and so forth; of her journey down, a long and weary one of some hundred miles, and the attention she received from various gentlemen passengers, the bright chatterer, all smiles, animation, and full of little tricks of manner, seemed indeed a contrast to the taller, graver, dark-haired, and dark-eyed Hester, whose violet-blue eye looked quite black by gaslight.
Though a niece of Sir Harry's, Annot Drummond was no cousin to Roland Lindsay, yet she seemed quite inclined, erelong, to adopt the rôle of being one; for he was quite handsome enough and interesting enough in aspect and bearing to attract a girl like her, who instinctively filled up her time with every chance-medley man she met, and knew fully how to appreciate one whose prospects and positions were so undoubtedly good; thus she repeatedly turned with her irresistible smiles and espièglerie to him, as if he were her sole, or certainly her chief, audience.
Meanwhile old Sir Henry sat silently smoking his inevitable hookah, eyeing her with loving looks, and tracing—or rather trying to trace—a likeness between her and his favourite sister; and Hester, who had of course seen her cousin often before, sat somewhat silent, for then each girl was, perhaps unconsciously, trying to know, to learn, and to grasp the nature of the other.
'Hester,' said Annot in a well-managed aside, 'I saw your friend Skene of Dunnimarle in London, and he talked of you to me, and of no one but you, which I thought scarcely fair.'
'Why?'
'One girl doesn't care to hear another's praises only for an hour without end, I suppose.'
Hester looked annoyed, but Roland seemed to hear the remark as if he heard it not, which was not the case, as Hester's name had been more than once mentioned in conjunction with that of the young fellow in question.
'I remember when Skene of ours at Sealkote——' Sir Harry was beginning, when Hester contrived to cut the Indian reminiscence short.