She had delicate little features which had been made to fit a pretty
child, and had never grown up. Her hair, of a reddish yellow, had faded
to a yellowish white, which by a faint fillip of the imagination could
be made to seem golden in some lights. Her eyes were large and round,
and of a china-blue colour; her eyebrows so arched as to give her an
expression of perpetual surprise, her forehead full, her cheekbones high
and pink, her small, pursed mouth of the kind which prefers to hide a
sense of humour, and then astonish people with it when they have ceased
to believe in its existence. If her complexion had not been netted all
over with a lacework of infinitesimal wrinkles, she would have looked
like a little girl dressed up for an old lady. She had a ribbon of the
MacGregor tartan on her cap, and an uncompromising cairngorm fastened
her fichu of valuable point lace. A figure more out of place than hers
in an ancient Arab palace of Algiers it would be impossible to conceive;
yet it was a pleasant figure to see there, and Stephen knew that he was
going to like Nevill's Aunt Caroline, Lady MacGregor.
"I wish you looked more of a monster than you do," said she, "because
you might frighten the ghosts. We're eaten up with them, the way some
folk in old houses are with rats. Nearly all of them slaves, too, so
there's no variety, except that some are female. I've given you the room
with the prettiest ghosts, but if you're not the seventh son of a
seventh son, you may not see or even hear them.
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