But
she was introduced to me as Miss Fielding, and her father was with her."
"Fielding! Fielding!" Andrew repeated. "Never mind that. What was she
like! What colored hair had she?"
"I told you that she kept her veil down," Duncombe repeated. "Her hair
was a sort of deep, red-brown--what I could see of it. But, seriously,
Andrew, what is the use of discussing her? One might as soon expect one
of my housemaids to change into Phyllis Poynton, as to discover her with
a brand-new father, a brand-new name, and a guest at Runton Place."
Andrew was silent for a moment. He touched his spectacles with a weary
gesture, and covered his eyes with his hand.
"Yes," he said, "I suppose you are right. I suppose I am a fool.
But--the voice!"
"The laughter of women," said Duncombe, "is music all the world over.
One cannot differ very much from the other."
"You are quite wrong, George," Andrew said. "The voices of women vary
like the thumb-marks of criminals. There are no two attuned exactly
alike. It is the receptive organs that are at fault. We, who have lost
one sense, find the others a little keener. The laughter of that
girl--George, will you keep me a few days longer? Somehow I cannot bring
myself to leave until I have heard her voice once more.
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