"Georgie"
neither. Hair as smooth and soft and darkly brown as Drusilla's own, and large, innocent eyes, stupid and brown, rather like the eyes of a cow, and a delicate oval face, palely pathetic. Her little mouth drooped at the corners, and she had pretty teeth. She wore a shabby blue serge dress and a little French sailor hat, and, at Georgie's introduction, she came shyly forward. Everything about her attitude figure, eyes, pretty, sulky mouth—struck me as being appealing, and I was not surprised, that to Georgie the single-hearted, her appeal had gone home. Her name, it seemed, was Fitzgerald.
Drusilla spoke first, kindly enough.
"You will have some breakfast with us, won't you? Martin do try to get some dry toast. And I must have tea, not coffee."
It was a curious meal, and an extremely silent one. Miss Fitzgerald was frankly hungry, and with hot tea her cheeks grew rose-color. She was certainly very pretty, and her drawling Devonshire accent was
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