So for the time being Sofia contented herself with silent study of his face
as fitfully revealed by the passing lights of Shaftesbury Avenue.
A nice face (she thought) open and naive, perhaps a trace too much so; but,
viewed at close quarters, by no means so child-like as she had thought it,
and by no means wanting in evidences of quiet strength if one forgave the
funny little moustache which (now one came to, observe it seriously) was
precisely what lent that possibly deceptive look of innocence and
inconsequence, positively weakening the character of what might otherwise
have been a countenance to foster confidence.
As for Mr. Karslake, he endured this candid scrutiny with a faintly
apprehensive smile, but volunteered nothing more; so that, when the silence
in time acquired an accent of constraint, it was Sofia who had to break it,
not Mr. Karslake.
"I'm wondering about you," she explained quite gravely.
"One fancied as much, Princess Sofia."
She liked his way of saying that; the title seemed to fall naturally from
his lips, without a trace of irony. None the less, it wouldn't do to be too
readily influenced in his favour.
"Do you really know my father?"
"Rather!" said Mr. Karslake. "You see, I'm his secretary."
"How long--"
"Upward of eighteen months now."
"And how long have you known I was his daughter?"
Mr. Karslake, consulting a wrist-watch, permitted himself a quiet smile.
"Thirty-eight minutes," he announced--"say, thirty-nine.
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