Dona Rita added, "Mr. Mills and I are friends from
old times, you know."
Bathed in the softened reflection of the sunshine, which did not
fall directly into the room, standing very straight with her arms
down, before Mills, and with a faint smile directed to me, she
looked extremely young, and yet mature. There was even, for a
moment, a slight dimple in her cheek.
"How old, I wonder?" I said, with an answering smile.
"Oh, for ages, for ages," she exclaimed hastily, frowning a little,
then she went on addressing herself to Mills, apparently in
continuation of what she was saying before.
. . . "This man's is an extreme case, and yet perhaps it isn't the
worst. But that's the sort of thing. I have no account to render
to anybody, but I don't want to be dragged along all the gutters
where that man picks up his living."
She had thrown her head back a little but there was no scorn, no
angry flash under the dark-lashed eyelids. The words did not ring.
I was struck for the first time by the even, mysterious quality of
her voice.
"Will you let me suggest," said Mills, with a grave, kindly face,
"that being what you are, you have nothing to fear?"
"And perhaps nothing to lose," she went on without bitterness.
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