He was tongue-tied.
He had met the languid gaze of her dark, full eyes, a little
supercilious, a little amused, faintly curious, and his own fell at once
before their calm insolence. She was handsomely dressed. The delicate,
white hand which held her novel was ablaze with many and wonderful
rings. She was evidently tall, without doubt stately. Her black hair,
parted in the middle, drooped a little to the side by her ears, her
complexion, delightfully clear, was of a curious ivory pallor
unassociated with ill-health. She regarded him through a pair of
ivory-handled lorgnettes, which she carelessly closed as he looked
towards her.
"Will you tell me," she asked quietly, "why you have entered my carriage
which is engaged--and in such an extraordinary manner?"
He drew a little breath. He had never heard a voice like it
before--soft, musical, and with the slightest suggestion of a foreign
accent. Then he remembered that she was waiting for an answer. He
began his apology.
"I am sorry--indeed I am very sorry. I had no time to look inside, and
I thought it was an empty carriage--a third-class one, too. It was very
stupid."
"You appeared to be" she remarked, "in a hurry."
The faint note of humour in her tone passed undetected by him.
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