“Why doesn’t Teazer come to us?” exclaimed my uncle. “Stay you here, my boy, and I’ll go and call her.”
I took a chair at the table, and began to inspect the contents of an album filled with photographs. Here was something to interest me, for on the very first page was a portrait of my father, taken ten years before, by little Chatelain, of the Rue d’Epingle. Next him was my uncle, and below, Dick, facing Tom’s wife. All these were capital photographs, and made me laugh. On the next pages were, on the left a photograph of Theresa, and on the right a portrait of Conny. I had now my two cousins before me, and could compare them. Conny looked indescribably pretty, in spite of a somewhat affected pose. Teazer’s face was in profile, and a handsome profile it was. There was plenty of intellect in the low, square brow, over which the plentiful dark hair was roughly drawn. The eyelashes were long, but contributed little of tenderness to the determined gaze of the large eye. The contour of the bust was noble. She held a stout riding-whip across her shoulder, as a man holds a gun. Yet there was something very striking about this photograph. I caught myself examining it intently and not without admiration; though when my eye reverted to the sunny-haired beauty on the other page, my heart welcomed the sweeter attraction that drew it away from the fascination of the stern and handsome Teazer.
All at once the door was violently pushed open, and in walked the lady of the pistol! I closed the album and stood up. She gave me a manly nod, though such a figure as hers ought to have been capable of the most graceful and sweeping bow in the world, and said, “Are you my cousin?”
“I believe so,” I answered, “that is, if you are Theresa Hargrave.”
To this she made no reply, but stood for some moments with a curling lip, examining me from head to foot in a manner the most depressing to my self-conceit that can well be imagined.
Meanwhile, I honoured her with a similar inspection. Her portrait scarce]y did her justice—it made her a brunette; whereas, her skin was delicately fair, though her eyes were dark and piercing, and her hair brown. She had a full red underlip, a fine tinge of red upon her cheeks, a straight Greek nose, and finely arched eyebrows. She held herself perfectly erect. I unhesitatingly admitted, in spite of the prejudice her extraordinary behaviour excited in me, that she was a strikingly handsome girl; but I sought in her face in vain for some sign of the capacity of tender impulse and the womanly characteristics her father had claimed for her.
“What made you afraid of me just now?” she enquired without a smile. “You must be a very nervous person.”
“I am much obliged to you for your good opinion,” I replied loftily. And then conceiving that her singular manner was assumed, perhaps, for the purpose of raising a laugh at me, I said, “A very brave man might be allowed to feel a little timid on seeing a loaded pistol levelled at his head. But perhaps you mistook surprise for fear. You see, I was quite unprepared for your very noisy reception. I had heard much of your skill as a marksman, but I had no idea you were possessed of such immense courage as to shoot at a guest from behind a tree.”
“A bumpkin!” she muttered, turning on her heel and throwing herself in a decidedly inelegant posture on the sofa. “You may sit down if you like.”
I accepted her polite invitation, but with so perplexed a face that I could almost believe the expression on it merited the contemptuous gaze she fastened on me.