“May I sit and watch you?” Cassandra asked, shutting up her book. “I got ready on purpose.”
“Oh, you’re ready, are you?” said Katharine, half turning in the midst of her operations, and looking at Cassandra, who sat, clasping her knees, on the edge of the bed.
“There are people dining here,” she said, taking in the effect of Cassandra from a new point of view. After an interval, the distinction, the irregular charm, of the small face with its long tapering nose and its bright oval eyes were very notable. The hair rose up off the forehead rather stiffly, and, given a more careful treatment by hairdressers and dressmakers, the light angular figure might possess a likeness to a French lady of distinction in the eighteenth century.
“Who’s coming to dinner?” Cassandra asked, anticipating further possibilities of rapture.
“There’s William, and, I believe, Aunt Eleanor and Uncle Aubrey.”
“I’m so glad William is coming. Did he tell you that he sent me his manuscript? I think it’s wonderful—I think he’s almost good enough for you, Katharine.”
“You shall sit next to him and tell him what you think of him.”
“I shan’t dare do that,” Cassandra asserted.
“Why? You’re not afraid of him, are you?”
“A little—because he’s connected with you.”