The strange girl was saying something to him, in a voice full and yet low, a voice with a sort of thick throb in it, and in its thickness a sweet and poignant quality.
"Please," it was saying, "excuse me, you're Mr. Ransome, aren't you—Winny Dymond's friend?"
With a "Yes" that strangled itself and became inarticulate, he admitted that he was Mr. Ransome.
The girl lowered her eyelids (deep white eyelids they were, and hung with black fringes, marvelously thick and long); she lowered them as if her own behavior and his had made her shy.
"I'm Winny's friend, too," she said. "That's why I'm here."
And with that she looked him in the face with eyes that shot at him a clear blue out of their darkness. Her eyes, as he expressed it afterward, were "stunners," and they were "queer"; they were the "queerest" thing about her. That was his word for their half-fascinating, half-stupefying quality.
"Are you waiting for her?" he asked.
"No. It's no good waiting for her. She's gone."
"Gone?"
"Gone home."