She came in looking very straight and
graceful and composed. Her personal note was carried out
in her pretty clothes, which hung and "sat" upon her like
the rhythm of verses; they could fall no other way. She
had in every movement the definite accent of young
ladyhood; she was very much aware of herself, of the
situation, and of her value in it, a setting for herself
she saw it, and saw it truly. No one, from the moment
she entered the room, looked at anything else.
"Oh, Mr Murchison," she said. "How do you do? Mother, do
you mind if I open the window? It's quite warm out of
doors--regular summer."
Lorne sprang to open the window, while Miss Filkin,
murmuring that it had been a beautiful day, moved a little
farther from it.
"Oh, please don't trouble, Mr Murchison; thank you very
much!" Miss Milburn continued, and subsided on a sofa.
"Have you been playing tennis this week?"
Mr Murchison said that he had been able to get down to
the club only once.
"The courts aren't a bit in good order. They want about
a week's rolling. The balls get up anywhere," said Dora.
"Lawn tennis," Mrs Milburn asserted herself, "is a
delightful exercise. I hope it will never go out of
fashion; but that is what we used to say of croquet, and
it has gone out and come in again."
Lorne listened to this with deference; there was a hint
of patience in the regard Dora turned upon her mother.
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