A pale embroidered tea-gown lay across the couch, and a book that looked very much like a French novel was thrown beside it.

Miss Darrell was evidently a Sybarite in her tastes.
Uncle Max was waiting for me at the foot of the stairs, and took me into the drawing-room at once.
To our surprise, we found Miss Hamilton there alone.

The room was only dimly lighted, and she was sitting in a large carved chair beside the fire with an open book in her lap.
I wonder if Max noticed how like a picture she looked.

She was dressed very simply in a soft creamy cashmere, and her fair hair was piled up on her head in regal fashion: the smooth plaits seemed to crown her; a little knot of red berries that had been carelessly fastened against her throat was the only colour about her; but she looked more like Clytie than ever, and again I told myself that I had never seen a sweeter face.
She greeted me with gentle warmth, but she hardly looked at Max; her white lids dropped over her eyes whenever he addressed her, and when she answered him she seemed to speak in a more measured voice than usual.

Max too appeared extremely nervous; instead of sitting down, he stood upon the bear-skin rug and fidgeted with some tiny Chinese ornaments on the mantelpiece.