The pale face under the shadow of the inverted pie-dish was odd and arresting. The eyes, long-lashed and brilliant, were really brown eyes, almost the colour of old, dark sherry; deep-set under delicately pencilled, very black eyebrows. Her mouth was rather large with well-cut full red lips and strong even white teeth; but her face was painfully thin, the cheeks so hollow and the chin so sharp that her eyes dominated everything, were out of proportion, and imparted to the beholder an uncomfortable sense of tragedy and gloom almost painful—until she smiled. Then the slumbering fire in the great eyes was quenched and they looked peaceful and pleasant as clear brown water under sunshine in a Devonshire trout stream.
"Hadn't you better come in and wait for your aunt?" Edmund suggested. "If you go back now you're certain to miss her."
"May I?" asked the little girl, smiling all over her face. "May I? I hope aunt won't mind."
"Come in," said Edmund, and shut the door.
The side-door opened straight into the scullery; then came the kitchen, large, orderly, and comfortable; opening out of that was a housekeeper's room not yet completely furnished. Edmund led his guest through these apartments and across a narrow passage to the dining-room where Montagu was sitting on the floor fastening on his pads.
"Here's Mrs. Dew's niece!" Edmund announced. "This is Montagu," he continued. "What's your name? We can't call you Mrs. Dew's niece all the time."
Montagu arose from the floor and shook hands in solemn silence after the manner of boys.
"My name's Jane-Anne, please, sir," said the little girl.
"My name's Edmund, please, miss," that youth remarked, grinning broadly.
Jane-Anne looked surprised. She saw nothing unusual in her mode of address.