His heavy, highly coloured head was lowered and turned aside a little as though to bring one ear to bear on what she was saying.
"Mr.Berkley seems to be an--unusual man," she ventured.

"Do you happen to know him, Colonel Arran ?" "Slightly." "Oh.

Did you know his parents ?" "His mother." "She is not living, I believe." "No." "Is his father living ?" "I--don't know." "You never met him ?" Colonel Arran's forefinger slowly outlined the deeply carved horn of plenty.
"I am not perfectly sure that I ever met Mr.Berkley's father." She sat, elbows on the table, gazing reflectively into space.
"He is a--curious--man." "Did you like him ?" asked Colonel Arran with an effort.
"Yes," she said, so simply that the Colonel's eyes turned directly toward her, lingered, then became fixed on the sunlit damask folds behind her.
"What did you like about Mr.

Berkley, Ailsa ?" She considered.
"I--don't know---exactly." "Is he cultivated ?" "Why, yes--I suppose so." "Is he well bred ?" "Oh, yes; only--" she searched mentally--"he is not--may I say, conventional?
formal ?" "It is an age of informality," observed Colonel Arran, carefully tracing out each separate grape in the horn of plenty.
Ailsa assented; spoke casually of something else; but when Colonel Arran brought the conversation around again to Berkley, she in nowise seemed reluctant.
"He is unusually attractive," she said frankly; "his features, at moments, are almost beautiful.

I sometimes wonder whether he resembles his mother.