Finely, eloquently, there pervaded her a
reserve that seemed almost to exhale a fragrance. But of course that
is silly rot. I mean to say, she drew the attention without visible
effort. She only waited.
The Earl of Brinstead, as we all saw, had continued to stare. Thrice
slowly arose the spoon of soup, for mere animal habit was strong upon
him, yet at a certain elevation it each time fell slowly back. He was
acting like a mechanical toy. Then the Mixer caught his eye and nodded
crisply. He bobbed in response.
"What ho! The dowager!" he exclaimed, and that time the soup was
successfully resumed.
"Poor old mater!" sighed his hostess. "She's constantly taking up
people. One does, you know, in these queer Western towns."
"Jolly old thing, awfully good sort!" said his lordship, but his eyes
were not on the Mixer.
Terribly then I recalled the Honourable George's behaviour at that
same table the night he had first viewed this Klondike person. His
lordship was staring in much the same fashion. Yet I was relieved to
observe that the woman this time was quite unconscious of the interest
she had aroused. In the case of the Honourable George, who had frankly
ogled her--for the poor chap has ever lacked the finer shades in these
matters--she had not only been aware of it but had deliberately played
upon it.
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