Sinclair and he raised a regular tornado in the
handsome hall. Questions and answers, only half distinguishable, blew
between them, with explosions of laughter, and a thunder of claps on
each other's shoulders. When their gale was at its noisiest, Royal's
part of it abruptly sank to a dead calm, stopped by "an angel unawares."
A girl of sixteen, with hair like the brown and gold of a pheasant's
breast, opened a drawing-room door, stepped to Neal's side, and
whispered,--
"Introduce me!"
"My sister," said Neal, recovering self-possession. "Myrtle, I believe
I'll let you guess for yourself which is Garst and which is Sinclair."
"Well, I've heard so much about you for the past two years that I know
you already, all but your looks. So I'm sure to guess right," said
Myrtle Farrar, scrutinizing the Americans with a pretty welcoming
glance, then giving to each a glad hand-shake.
Royal's tongue grew for once less active than his eyes, which were so
caught by the golden shades on the pheasant-like head that for a minute
he could see nothing else.
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