A look of pleasure flashed into his eyes—a look which pretty well told me everything. Nevertheless he answered as carelessly as if such lovely young women were as common to the mountain side as rocks and brambles.
“I expect you mean Miss Rowan; a niece of our worthy landlady. She lives with her.”
“She cannot be Scotch, with such a face and eyes?”
“Half-and-half. Her father was called an Englishman; but was, I believe, of French extraction. They say the name was originally Rohan.”
Carriston seemed to have made close inquiries as to Miss Rowan’s parentage.
“But what brings her here?” I asked.
“She has nowhere else to go. Rowan was an artist. He married a sister of our hostess, and bore her away from her native land. Some years ago she died, leaving this one daughter. Last year the father died, penniless, they tell me, so the girl has since then lived with her only relative, her aunt.”
“Well,” I said, “as you seem to know all about her, you can introduce me by and by.”
“With the greatest pleasure, if Miss Rowan permits,” said Carriston. I was glad to hear him give the conditional promise with as much respect to the lady’s wishes as if she had been a duchess.