Suddenly he found himself gazing into a pair of smiling brown eyes; but even as he looked the smile died in their amber depths. In its place was embarrassment; a frown puckered the delicately pencilled eyebrows. Again the clear voice spoke almost with reproach.
“Oh, I beg your pardon, but you are ridiculously like a friend of mine,—Paul Vulning.”
“Indeed, that’s curious.”
“Yes, too absurd. For now I look, you’re quite a bit different. Paul must be five years older than you, but he looks ten. The dear boy doesn’t take the care of himself he ought. A sad scapegrace.”
She regarded him again, then laughed joyously.
“Why, here we are, two perfect strangers talking together like old pals. What must you think of me? Because of your likeness to Paul I feel as if I’d known you for ages. What’s your name?”
“Hugh Kildair.”
“Sounds deliciously Scotch. But you’re English, aren’t you?”
“I’ve lived all my life in England.”
“Indeed? So have I. But never again. The English are so cold. They don’t understand temperament. Even before my husband died and we lost all our money, I was quite fed up with it. Now I spend the winter in Monte and the summer in Aix.”