LISA’S KNIGHT AND LISA’S SISTER

It had come at last, the moment I had been thinking about for days.  I was going to have him all to myself, the only person in the world I ever loved.

He had asked me to sit out two dances, and that made me think he really must want to be with me, not just because I’m the “pretty girl’s sister,” but because I’m myself, Lisa Drummond.

Being what I am,—­queer, and plain, I can’t bear to think that men like girls for their beauty; yet I can’t help liking men better if they are handsome.

I don’t know if Ivor Dundas is the handsomest man I ever saw, but he seems so to me.  I don’t know if he is very good, or really very wonderful, although he’s clever and ambitious enough; but he has a way that makes women fond of him; and men admire him, too.  He looks straight into your eyes when he talks to you, as if he cared more for you than anyone else in the world:  and if I were an artist, painting a picture of a dark young knight starting off for the crusades, I should ask Ivor Dundas to stand as my model.

Perhaps his expression wouldn’t be exactly right for the pious young crusader, for it isn’t at all saintly, really:  still, I have seen just that rapt sort of look on his face.  It was generally when he was talking to Di:  but I wouldn’t let myself believe that it meant anything in particular.  He has the reputation of having made lots of women fall in love with him.  This was one of the first things I heard when Di and I came over from America to visit Lord and Lady Mountstuart.  And of course there was the story about him and Maxine de Renzie.  Everyone was talking of it when we first arrived in London.

My heart beat very fast as I guided him into the room which Lady Mountstuart has given Di and me for our special den.  It is separated by another larger room from the ballroom; but both doors were open and we could see people dancing.

I told him he might sit by me on the sofa under Di’s book shelves, because we could talk better there.  Usually, I don’t like being in front of a mirror, because—­well, because I’m only the “pretty girl’s sister.”  But to-night I didn’t mind.  My cheeks were red, and my eyes bright.  Sitting down, you might almost take me for a tall girl, and the way my gown was made didn’t show that one shoulder is a little higher than the other.  Di designed the dress.

I thought, if I wasn’t pretty, I did look interesting, and original.  I looked as if I could think of things; and as if I could feel.

And I was feeling.  I was wondering why he had been so good to me lately, unless he cared.  Of course it might be for Di’s sake; but I am not so queer-looking that no man could ever be fascinated by me.

They say pity is akin to love.  Perhaps he had begun by pitying me, because Di has everything and I nothing; and then, afterwards, he had found out that I was intelligent and sympathetic.