Grant Allen - The British Barbarians

Thus mutely exhorted, though with a visible effort, Philip murmured half inarticulately, in a stifled undertone, “My sister, Mrs. Monteith—Mr. Bertram Ingledew,” and then trembled inwardly.

It was a surprise to Bertram that the beautiful woman with the soul in her eyes should turn out to be the sister of the very commonplace young man with the boiled-fish expression he had met by the corner; but he disguised his astonishment, and only interjected, as if it were the most natural remark in the world: “I’m pleased to meet you. What a lovely gown! and how admirably it becomes you!”

Philip opened his eyes aghast. But Frida glanced down at the dress with a glance of approbation. The stranger’s frankness, though quaint, was really refreshing.

“I’m so glad you like it,” she said, taking the compliment with quiet dignity, as simply as it was intended. “It’s all my own taste; I chose the stuff and designed the make of it. And I know who this is, Phil, without your troubling to tell me; it’s the gentleman you met in the street last night, and were talking about at dinner.”

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