to notice that his pupils had grown suddenly large. Otherwise, his expression did not change—indeed, why should it?—but this inexplicable look in his eyes gave me an unpleasant little shock.
“Mr. Dabney,” Mrs. Brane was saying, “has been sent over by Mrs. Rodman, one of our distant neighbors, to enliven our dulness. He wants to study my husband's Russian library, and, as my husband made it an especial request that his books should not be lent, this means that we shall see Mr. Dabney very often. Dr. Haverstock has been looking Robbie over. The poor little fellow's nerves are in a pretty bad condition—”
“You'll let me see him, won't you?” murmured young Dabney; “I rather adore young children.”
“Oh,” laughed the big doctor in his noisy way, “any one who hasn't red hair may see Robbie. I hear he has a violent objection to red hair, eh, Miss Gale! Very pretty red hair, too.”
Of course it was friendly teasing, but it angered me unreasonably, and I felt the color rising to my conspicuous crop. Especially as Mr. Dabney looked at me with an air of mildly increasing interest.
“How very odd!” he said.
“Would you mind taking Mr. Dabney to the bookroom when he's finished his tea, Miss Gale,” asked Mrs. Brane in her sweet way. “I'd like to talk Robbie over a little longer with Dr. Haverstock, if you'll excuse me, Mr. Dabney. Show him the card catalogue, Miss Gale. Thank you.”
It was an unwelcome duty, and I intended to make it as short as possible. I had not reckoned on young Mr. Dabney's ability as an entertainer.
He began to talk as we crossed the hall.
“Splendid house, isn't it, Miss Gale? The sort of place you read about and would like to write about if you had the gift. Have you ever been in the South before?”
“No,” I said discouragingly. “This is the room.”
“I know the country about here very well. Have you been able to get around much?”
“Naturally not. As a housekeeper—”
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