He snatched off his cap and murmured an apology.
"I beg your pardon! I did not know anyone was in the room," he said.
The lady was young and handsome, with a beauty which owed a great deal to colour.

Her hair was a rich auburn, her complexion of the delicate purity which sometimes goes with that coloured hair--"milk and roses," it used to be called.

Her eyes were of china blue, and her lips rather full, but of the richest carmine.

She was exquisitely dressed, her travelling costume evidently of Redfern's build, and one hand, from which she had removed the glove, was loaded with costly rings; diamonds and emeralds as large as nuts, and of the first water.
But it was not her undeniable beauty, or her dress and costly jewellery, which impressed Stafford so much as the proud, scornfully listless air with which she regarded him as she leant back indolently--and a little insolently--tapping the edge of the table with her glove.
"Pray don't apologise," she said, languidly.

"This is a public room, I suppose!" "Yes, I think so," said Stafford, in his pleasant, frank way; "but one doesn't rush into a public room with one's hat on if he has reason to suppose that a lady is present.