She bit her lip softly and a faint flush rose to the clear pallor of
the lovely, girlish face reflected in the glass. Yes, she had behaved
just like a servant-maid, she who in her heart of hearts knew that she
prided herself upon her dignity and the good manners which should
belong to a Heron of Herondale. It was characteristic of her that while
she thought of his conduct and what she considered her bad behaviour,
she gave no thought to the fact that the stranger who had so "intruded"
was singularly handsome and possessed of that strange quality which at
once impresses women. Most girls would have remembered the fact, but
Ida was different to the general run of her sex. She had been brought
up in an out-of-the-way place in which the modern novel, the
fashionable pastime of flirtation, were not known; and her secluded
life in the lonely dale had deepened that sense of aloofness from the
world, that indifference to the sentiment which lurks in most girls'
bosoms. This tall, handsome man who had stepped into her life and
shared the secret of her father's strange affliction, weakness, was
nothing more to her than one of the other tourists whom she sometimes
chanced to see on her lonely rides and walks.
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