She warmed when eyes told her she was beautiful; but she chilled whenever the lips took up the speech, and voiced it.

She was one of those happy beings in either sex who can amuse themselves, who can hold pleasant communion with the inner self, who can find romance in old houses, and yet love books, who prefer sunrises and sunsets at first hand, still loving a good painting.
Perhaps this trend of character was the result of her inherited love of the open.

With almost unlimited funds under her own hand, she lived simply.

She was never happy in smart society, though it was always making demands upon her.

When abroad, she was generally prowling through queer little shops instead of mingling with the dress parades on the grand-hotel terraces.