Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. Because she states her case in a tangle, drags it through swamps of nonsense, it doesn’t alter the fact that she is right. Evidently in the flower of his age, he was scarcely less remarkable for symmetry of person than for comeliness of feature; and, though his attire was plain and unpretending, it was such as could be worn only by one belonging to the higher ranks of society. “Perhaps that is only sleeping,” he said. ‘You don’t mind if I sit down?’ She considered him a moment, her head a little on one side. Sir John felt that after all forty-five was not so very old.
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