— IX —HIS HOSTESS
Certainly she looked charming. He had to concede so much. And in a style which, to the best of his knowledge and belief, was so wholly her own. That was what struck him – her uniqueness. There could hardly be another woman in the world who was just like her. In spite of his desire to avoid her, he caught himself wondering how old she was, as he had just been wondering in the case of Mrs. Owen, though here the wonder arose from a very different cause. She seemed the merest child. She looked seventeen; surely she was not more than twenty. All the evidence was against it – her face, her hair, the air of freshness, of youth, which was about her as a garment. Even her manner, though so easy, was a child’s – careless, irresponsible, light-hearted, with in it, now and then, jus
