Her eyebrows were very black, but slightly arched, and they almost met over her nose; and I gazed into the orbs below them, so dark, so clear, and beautiful--eyes that could neither conceal the emotions of her heart, nor the pleasure or sorrow she felt; and I thought how easily a man might be lured to forget the world for her, as friendship between the sexes--especially in youth--is perilous; and some such thought, perhaps, occurred to her, for she turned her face abruptly from me.
"You are surely not angry with me?" said I, bending nearer her ear.
"Angry--I with you?"
"Yes."
"Why should I be so?" she asked, looking down upon her folded hands that trembled in her lap--for she was evidently repressing some emotion; thinking, perhaps, of poor Phil Caradoc, who was then ploughing the waters of the Mediterranean with Carneydd Llewellyn to console him.
"You should not have come here," said she, after a pause.
"Not into the drawing-room?"
"Unless to meet Estelle Cressingham."
"Do not say this," said I, nervously and imploringly, in a low voice; "what is Estelle to me?"
"Indeed!" said the little scornful lip. "Her mamma summoned her, but she may be here shortly."