“I think there’s nothing better than buttered toast at any time of the year,” said Archie heartily, at once following Blanche’s lead.
He was beginning to feel quite himself again. More than that, indeed, when Blanche glanced at him with an approving smile such as she had not yet favoured him with. How lovely she looked! He had always thought her lovely, but never, it seemed to him, had he seen her to such advantage as now; the afternoon sunshine adding a glow to her fair hair, and a touch of warmth to the delicate tints of her face, which had struck him as rather pale when he first saw her. Yet nothing could be simpler than the holland dress she was wearing. What made it so graceful in its folds? He had often condemned holland as too stiff and ungracious a material to be becoming, for Archie was a great connoisseur in such matters. Its creamy shade even seemed to deepen her blue eyes, lighted up by the transient smile. He had been a little doubtful about the colour of her eyes before, but now he was quite satisfied. They were thoroughly blue, but never had he seen so rich a shade in conjunction with that complexion and hair. He forgot he was looking at her, till a slight flush, for which the sunshine was not responsible, creeping over the girl’s cheeks, made him realise his unconscious breach of good manners.
The little bustle of handing cups and plates covered his momentary annoyance with himself.
“Really,” he thought, “what’s coming over me? I must be losing my head.”
The next quarter of an hour or so, however, passed very pleasantly. Mr Dunstan began to hope that he might feel himself re-established in the little family’s good graces.
“Are you going to be at Alderwood for some time?” asked Mrs Derwent in the course of conversation. “Isn’t it rather dull for you?”
“I don’t mind it,” replied Archie. “I’m rather used to being alone—in the country, that’s to say. I’ve no one but myself at my own home. I’ve been an orphan, you know, since I was a little fellow, and my only sister has been married for several years. Her husband is Norman Milward’s half-brother, Charles Conniston. They live in Ireland. By the way, you must have seen them that—that first afternoon I met you at Alderwood. They were staying at Crossburn then.”
“No,” said Blanche, whom he seemed to be addressing. “I don’t think I remember any one except old Mrs Selwyn that day, though I have seen young Mr Milward—Lady Hebe’s fiancé—once or twice, and his sister several times.”
“Oh, Rosy!” said Mr Dunstan. “Isn’t she nice? But isn’t she plain—almost odd-looking?”
Blanche did not reply.