all; but she had been born with the knack of doing things easily, gracefully and well. One made this appraisal of Margaret Sherwood simultaneously with liking the fairness of her face, her deep, direct blue eyes, the glow of her cheek, the smile ever likely to light her full little lips, and the burnish of gold in the brown hair back from her white brow. She was twenty-four years old the month before.
She was sitting quietly beside her window, which looked over the water; at her feet was a large pasteboard box which, from the labels, had come by parcel post. She had opened it, but the cover was loosely laid on again. On the small table beside her she had pages of paper covered with handwriting, which Geoff recognised as the sheets of Eric Hedon's journal which McNeal and the others had brought back; and she was holding in one hand her best picture of Hedon.
She had not been crying during her interview with her father's cousin or afterward when she was alone; but now, as she turned to her brother, her lips trembled and her eyes filled.
