Was she really the sort of girl who might be taken for an inveterate old maid? Her hands and feet were small. Her ankles well-shaped. Her figure had been praised, even by women. Her hair was a natural red-auburn. Her features regular, her mouth mobile, well-shaped with very red lips. Her eyes a violet-blue with long dark lashes and eyebrows.
"You're not so bad, Patricia Brent," she remarked as she turned from the glass. "But you will probably be a secretary to the end of your days, drink cold weak tea, keep a cat and get hard and angular, skinny most likely. You're just the sort that runs to skin and bone."
She was interrupted in her meditations by a knock at the door.
"Come in," she called.
The door was softly opened and Mrs. Hamilton entered.
"May I come in, dear?" she enquired in an apologetic voice, as she stood on the threshold.
"Come in!" cried Patricia, "why of course you may, you dear. You can do anything you like with me."
Mrs. Hamilton was small and white and fragile, with a ray of sunlight in her soul. She invariably dressed in grey, or blue-grey. Everything she wore seemed to be as soft as her own expression.
"I—I came up—I—I—hope it is not bad news. I don't want to meddle in your affairs, my dear; but I am concerned. If there is anything
