J. S. Fletcher

“ Guy glanced at his brother, including Valencia in a side-glance.
"So—she's got a tongue, this sister of ours, eh, Master Harry?" he said, with a half-amused, half-cynical laugh. "Never mind—all the women of our family always have, I believe. Well—aren't you glad to see me?"
"Why should we be?" demanded Valencia. "You've never been near us, and never once written to any of us, for seven years? You may be our brother—half-brother, rather—but you're a stranger." ”

“ Has my sister any love-affairs?"
"Not to my knowledge, sir," replied Braxfield. "Miss Valencia, sir, is a young lady that hasn't seemed to favour the society of gentlemen, so far, sir. Outdoor life, Mr. Guy, is what appeals to her, I think—gardening, games, walking, bit of rabbit-shooting, and so on. A very healthy young lady, sir. I hear them coming, sir—I 'd better leave you." ”

“ Braxfield looked at him doubtfully.
"Gone to their rooms, Mr. Guy," he answered. "Or—they may be in your father's. Sir Anthony's about—at his end, sir."
Again Guy Markenmore looked along the passage. While he looked, Braxfield looked at him. He had altered little, thought Braxfield. He had always been noted since boyhood, for his good looks: he was still good-looking at thirty-five; tall, slim, dark, intense of gaze; the sort of man to attract and interest women. But he looked like a man who had lived hard ”