"Then you're not a Girton girl?"
"No; why do you ask?" answered Ermengarde. She began to feel a little flattered. The old gentleman must certainly consider her quite grown-up.
"Well," he replied, with another comical twinkle in his eyes, "I thought you seemed so intelligent, and although you have a young face, you have somehow or other an old way about you. You'll forgive my speaking frankly, my dear, but I notice that most old-young girls attend some of the colleges."
Ermengarde felt delighted. She changed her mind about the fat old gentleman, and began to regard him as a most agreeable person. He considered her face remarkable for intelligence, and although she was quite grown up, she looked sweetly youthful. She leant back in her chair, and toyed with her food.
"I'm not very old," she began.
"Not more than eighteen, I should think," replied the old gentleman.
Ermengarde gave vent to a silvery laugh.
"Eh? You're not more than that, are you?" asked her companion.
"No, sir," she answered. "I am not more than eighteen."
Although he was talking very earnestly to his neighbor, Mr. Wilton heard his daughter's laugh. It sounded to him a little forced and strained. His undefined sensation of discomfort increased. He turned and looked at Ermengarde. There certainly was something quite unusual about her. Now he raised his eyes to her hair.