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 CHAPTER

XVI

Miss C1ssrz ParMEnTEr strolled down the broad stairs at Holiday Knoll, looking neither to the left nor the right. She was freshly painted with considerable taste, and arrayed with such precision and perfection that she would have suggested a handsome and expensive species of toy but for the sleepy and dangerous eyes which were as profoundly human and natural as the rest of her was delieately artificial. In their depths one could surmise volcanic possibilities.

She was

small, daintily made, and

languid of movement, not without a hint of feline strength. Though her regard was apparently fixed upon far-away things, she had at once observed the man in the library. “You’re Mr. Scott, aren’t you?” she said in a cool and lazy voice, advancing with hand outstretched. “Yes.” He took the hand. “And you’re Miss Parmenter?” “Yes; I’m Cissie. You know, Mr. Scott, I’m a social outcast for the afternoon.” “It wouldn’t strike one as having weighed on your spirits.” “Buoyed up by the prospect of meeting you. Aren’t you appalled at having a total stranger on your hands all afternoon?” “On the contrary, I’m thrilled,” he returned with the conventional answer. She let her slow gaze sweep over him estimatingly. “You’re not a bit like I figured out,” she murmured, having decided upon the direct-personality gambit, as promising the best and promptest returns. 167