Charlotte blushed quickly; she had never yet heard her personal appearance alluded to in a loud, expressive voice.  Gertrude looked away—­not at Felix; she was extremely pleased.  It was not the compliment that pleased her; she did not believe it; she thought herself very plain.  She could hardly have told you the source of her satisfaction; it came from something in the way the Baroness spoke, and it was not diminished—­it was rather deepened, oddly enough—­by the young girl’s disbelief.  Mr. Wentworth was silent; and then he asked, formally, “Won’t you come into the house?”

“These are not all; you have some other children,” said the Baroness.

“I have a son,” Mr. Wentworth answered.

“And why does n’t he come to meet me?” Eugenia cried.  “I am afraid he is not so charming as his sisters.”

“I don’t know; I will see about it,” the old man declared.

“He is rather afraid of ladies,” Charlotte said, softly.

“He is very handsome,” said Gertrude, as loud as she could.

“We will go in and find him.  We will draw him out of his cachette.”  And the Baroness took Mr. Wentworth’s arm, who was not aware that he had offered it to her, and who, as they walked toward the house, wondered whether he ought to have offered it and whether it was proper for her to take it if it had not been offered.  “I want to know you well,” said the Baroness, interrupting these meditations, “and I want you to know me.”

“It seems natural that we should know each other,” Mr. Wentworth rejoined.  “We are near relatives.”

“Ah, there comes a moment in life when one reverts, irresistibly, to one’s natural ties—­to one’s natural affections.  You must have found that!” said Eugenia.

Mr. Wentworth had been told the day before by Felix that Eugenia was very clever, very brilliant, and the information had held him in some suspense.  This was the cleverness, he supposed; the brilliancy was beginning.  “Yes, the natural affections are very strong,” he murmured.

“In some people,” the Baroness declared.  “Not in all.”  Charlotte was walking beside her; she took hold of her hand again, smiling always.  “And you, cousine, where did you get that enchanting complexion?” she went on; “such lilies and roses?” The roses in poor Charlotte’s countenance began speedily to predominate over the lilies, and she quickened her step and reached the portico.  “This is the country of complexions,” the Baroness continued, addressing herself to Mr. Wentworth.  “I am convinced they are more delicate.  There are very good ones in England—­in Holland; but they are very apt to be coarse.  There is too much red.”

“I think you will find,” said Mr. Wentworth, “that this country is superior in many respects to those you mention.  I have been to England and Holland.”

“Ah, you have been to Europe?” cried the Baroness.  “Why did n’t you come and see me?  But it ’s better, after all, this way,” she said.  They were entering the house; she paused and looked round her.  “I see you have arranged your house—­your beautiful house—­in the—­in the Dutch taste!”