Up came those eyes to him, soft and luminous, their only expression being surprise, not a shade of vanity.
"I am not a child; why do you call me one? But Mrs. Cust said you would all be taking me for a child, until you knew me."
"How old are you?" asked Lionel.
"I was eighteen last September."
"Eighteen!" involuntarily repeated Lionel.
"Yes; eighteen. We had a party on my birthday. Mr. Cust gave me a most beautifully bound copy of Thomas à Kempis; he had had it bound on purpose. I will show it to you when my books are unpacked. You would like Mr. Cust, if you knew him. He is an old man now, and he has white hair. He is twenty years older than Mrs. Cust; but he is so good!"
"How is it," almost vehemently broke forth Lionel, "that you are so different from others?"
"I don't know. Am I different?"
"So different—so different—that—that—"
"What is the matter with me?" she asked timidly, almost humbly, the delicate colour in her cheeks deepening to crimson.