The tone was thin, gentle and studiously sweet, and her face, I am forced to admit, was comely.  Its contour was oval, slightly accented at the cheek bones, and its skin was white and very smooth.  Her lips were sensitive and scarlet, like an open wound.  Her eyes, relics, like the cheek bones, of a distant Slav progenitor, were set very slightly at an angle and were very dark, of what color I couldn’t at the moment decide, but I was sure that their expression was remarkable.  They were cool, appraising, omniscient and took me in with a casual politeness which neglected nothing that might have been significant.  I am not one of those who find mystery and enigma in women’s reticences, which are too often merely the evasions of ignorance or duplicity.  But I admit that this girl Marcia puzzled me.  Her characteristics clashed—­cool eyes with sensual lips, clear voice with languid gestures, a pagan—­that was how she impressed me then, a pagan chained by convention.

As I had foreseen, when she and Jerry went off to the Museum, I was left to the poor relation.  She was tall, had a Roman nose, black hair, folded straight over her ears, and wore glasses.  When I approached she was examining a volume on the library table, a small volume, a thin study of modern women that I had picked up at a book store in town.  Miss Gore smiled as she put the volume down, essaying, I suppose, that air of cheerfulness of which Jerry had boasted.

“‘Modern Woman,’” she said in a slow and rather deep voice, and then turning calmly, “I was led to, understand, Mr. Canby, that you weren’t interested in trifles.”

“I’m not,” I replied, “but I can’t deny their existence.”

“You can.  Here at Horsham Manor.”

“Could, Miss Gore,” I corrected.  “The Golden Age has passed.”

I didn’t feel like being polite.  Nothing is so maddening to me as cheerfulness in others when I have suddenly been awakened.  Her smile faded at once.”

“I didn’t come of my own volition,” she said icily.  “And I will not bother you if you want to go to sleep again.”

“Oh, thanks,” I replied.  “It doesn’t matter.”

She had turned her back on me and walked to the window.

“Would you like to see the English Garden?” I asked, suddenly aware of my inhospitality.

“Yes, if you’ll permit me to visit it alone.”

That wasn’t to be thought of.  After all she was only obeying orders.  I followed her out of doors, hastening to join her.

“I owe you an apology.  I’m not much used to the society of women.  They annoy me exceedingly.”

She looked around at me quizzically, very much amused.

“You consider that an apology?” she asked.

“I intended it to be one,” I replied.  “I have been rude.  I hope you’ll forgive me.”

“You are a philosopher, I see,” she said with a smile.  “I am sorry to annoy you.”

“Y—­you don’t, I think.  You seem to be a sensible sort of a person.”