"No: why should she be?"
"I suppose I was wrong. I thought she was the child of Gaston de St.
Maur, who used to visit us here."
"Her mother was Irish," Mrs. Comerford said.
"And she is like her mother?"
Before Mrs. Comerford could answer there came a knocking as of knuckles on the door.
"Come in, my darling," Mrs. Comerford said, her face lighting up.
A charming girlish face looked in at the open door.
"May I? Is it Lady O'Gara whom my dearest Mamma so greatly loves?"
There was the slightest foreign intonation in the voice,—something of deliberate utterance, as though English was not the language of the speaker.
The girl came into the room and towards them. She was charming. Her hair curled in rings of reddish brown on her little head. Her eyes were grey with something of brown in the iris: her eyebrows strongly marked. She had a straight beautiful little nose, lips softly opening, a chin like that of the Irish poet's "Mary Donnelly," "round as a china cup." There was something softly graceful about her as she came into the room. She looked down, then up again. Her eyes,—were they grey? They were brown surely, almost gold. Her little head was held as though she courted a caress.