Nevertheless, not knowing what else she could do, she followed, and found him leaning over the railing, and looking about him with serene enjoyment.

The clouds had been mostly dispersed; a fresh air moved in the damp garden; and Cornelia was soon aware that the mosquitoes were abroad.

Her muslin-covered arms and shoulders began to suffer.
Bressant raised himself at her approach, and stood with one hand against the railing, looking down upon her with a half-smile of interest and satisfaction, which made Cornelia feel not so much like a human being, as some rare natural curiosity which he was glad to have the opportunity of examining.
"You are one of the daughters ?" said he, with the sudden scrutinizing contraction of the eyebrows that often accompanied his questions.

"There are two, aren't there?
Which one are you ?" "I'm Cornelia," replied she, provoked, as the words left her mouth, that she had not said "Miss Valeyon." But the question had surprised her out of her presence of mind, and the necessity of speaking loud, if nothing else, hindered her from making the correction.
"Is the other any thing like you ?" resumed he, after a moment's more contemplation, which, spite of its directness, had in it a certain element of unsophisticatedness that prevented it from seeming rude.
"Who, Sophie ?" exclaimed the young lady, bursting forth into an unexpected gurgle of laughter, to which Bressant at once responded in kind, though having no idea what the merriment was about.

"I wish you could see her! There couldn't be a greater difference if I was a negro!" The laugh died away in Bressant's eyes, and he pressed his hand rapidly down over his face, as if to sharpen his wits, or clear away cobwebs.
"That's natural," he remarked, reflectively.