Amy Bracknel, the morning sunlight picking out threads of gold from the loose mass of her dark-red hair, and accentuating the delightful purity and freshness of her complexion, watched her father for a moment of meditative silence. A faint smile passed across her face, a smile which became more pronounced as her glance encountered her sister’s rather small brown eyes expectantly fixed upon her from the other side of the table. “What is he like, papa?” she asked. “Is he good-looking?” Her voice was firm, and its extreme clearness seemed to lend a certain boldness to her question, a suggestion almost of cynicism. The other persons present at the breakfast-table were probably accustomed to it.…
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