"He has very eloquent eyes," said Käthchen, demurely. "He seemed much pleased with his visit this evening."
"Käthchen," said Mary, and she seemed a little restless, and yet very happy withal: she went to the window occasionally to look at nothing, and appeared quite oblivious of the fact that the dinner-gong had just sounded—"Käthchen, do you remember the blue and gold embroidered scarf that I told you could be so easily turned into a hood for the opera?"
"I’m sure I do!" said Käthchen, little dreaming of what was coming.
"Then I’m going to give you that—yes, I will—now, don’t protest——"
"Indeed I must, though, Mamie," said Käthchen, warmly. "Why, what use would it be to me? And you know how admirably it suited your complexion and the colour of your hair. What mania for giving has seized you this afternoon? I thought you were going to throw away the whole of the Lochgarra estate; and I was glad to see Mr. Ross put some curb on your wildness. And I must say you were very amenable, Mamie. You’re not quite so self-willed when Mr. Ross is talking to you——"
"I’m going to be self-willed enough to make you take that scarf, Käthchen," said Mary, with a gay impetuosity. "Yes, I am. I will send for it to-morrow. Why, you know it is a pretty thing, Käthchen—the Albanian needlework is so quaint—and I remember perfectly that you admired it——"
"But what use would a hood for the theatre be in a place like this!" Käthchen exclaimed.
"Don’t I tell you it is a pretty thing to look at, here or anywhere else?" was the imperious rejoinder. "And I want to give it to you, Käthchen—and that’s all about it—and so not another word!"
When at length they went in to dinner, Mary sate silent and thoughtful for a little while: then she said—
"Käthchen, did you ever hear a voice that gave you such a curious impression of sincerity?"
"Do you mean Mr. Ross’s?" said Käthchen, gravely.
"Yes," said Mary, with a bit of a start: she had been forgetting. "I mean quite apart from the quality of the voice, and that of itself seems to me remarkable. For you know most men’s voices are repellent—unnecessarily harsh and grating—you are not interested—you would rather keep away. But his voice, quiet as it is, thrills; it is so clear, and soft, and persuasive; I don’t know that you can say of a man that he has a musical voice in talking, but if you can, then his is distinctly musical. Only that is not what you chiefly think of. It is the honesty of his tone that is so marked. He never seems to talk for effect; he does not want to impress you, or make any display; it is the truth he aims at, and you feel that it is the truth, and that you can believe down to the very depths every word he is uttering. And you seem to feel that he makes you honest too. It is no use trying any pretence with him. He would laugh at you if you did—and yet not cruelly. He is so direct, so simple, so manly, not a grain of affectation to be discovered. I wonder, now, when he is called to the Bar, if he will practise in the courts? For don’t you think I rather effectually stopped the emigration scheme—didn’t I, Käthchen? Oh, yes, I don’t think he will talk any more about Canada or Australia—not, at least, until I have had my chance. But on the other hand, if he were to remain in this county, and practise at the Bar, don’t you think he would succeed? I know if I were a judge, and Mr. Ross were pleading before me, I should have little difficulty in deciding who was speaking the truth."