went up-stairs to write letters, but finding no ink, came to the
drawing-room to ask her for some. She had only her own inkstand, which
was supplying her letter to Annette, and he sat down at the opposite
side of the table to share it. Her pen went much faster than his.
'Clifton Terrace, Winchester,' and 'My dear father--I came here
yesterday, and was most agreeably surprised,' was all that he had
indited, when he paused to weigh what was his real view of the merits
of the case, and ponder whether his present feeling was sober judgment,
or the novelty of the bewitching prettiness of this innocent and
gracious creature. There he rested, musing, while from her pen flowed
a description of her walk and of Mr. Martindale's brother. 'If they
are all like him, I shall be perfectly happy,' she wrote. 'I never saw
any one so kind and considerate, and so gentle; only now and then he
frightens me, with his politeness, or perhaps polish is the right word,
it makes me feel myself rude and uncourteous and awkward. You said
nothing gave you so much the notion of high-breeding as Mr.
Martindale's ease, especially when he pretended to be rough and talk
slang, it was like playing at it. Now, his brother has the same,
without the funny roughness, but the greatest gentleness, and a good
deal of quiet sadness. I suppose it is from his health, though he is
much better now: he still coughs, and he moves slowly and leans
languidly, as if he was not strong. He is not so tall as his brother,
and much slighter in make, and fairer complexioned, with gray eyes and
brown hair, and he looks sallow and worn and thin, with such white long
hands.'

Here raising her eyes to verify her description, she encountered those
of its subject, evidently taking a survey of her for the same purpose.
He smiled, and she was thereby encouraged to break into a laugh, so
girlish and light-hearted, so unconscious how much depended on his