F. V's. His manners were polished
in the extreme, possessing, perhaps, a little too much hauteur,
and impressing the beholder with the idea that he could, if he
chose, be very cold and overbearing. His forehead, high and
intellectually formed, was shaded by curls of soft brown hair,
while about his mouth there lurked a mischievous smile, somewhat
at variance with the proud curve of his upper lip, where an
incipient mustache was starting into life. Such was Arthur St.
Claire, as he stood coolly inspecting Edith Hastings, who mentally
styling him the "hatefullest upstart" she ever saw, gave him back
a glance as cool and curious as his own.
"You are an odd little thing," he said at last.
"No I ain't neither," returned Edith, the tears starting in her
flashing black eyes.
"Spunky," was the young man's next remark, as he advanced a step
or two toward her. "But don't let's quarrel, little lady. You've
come down to entertain me, I dare say; and now tell me who you
are."
His manner at once disarmed the impulsive Edith of all prejudice,
and she replied:
"I told you I was Edith Hastings, Mrs.
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