For the short, spectacled pianist there was this very tall, English-looking young man, upright and soldierly, with his handsome, boyish face and well-fitting clothes.

That was bad enough, but infinitely worse was she who was to have been the full-blown barmaid.

Instead was this magnificent girl, nearly as tall as her brother, with her small oval face crowning the column of her neck, her eyes merry, her mouth laughing at some brotherly retort that Hermann had just made.

Aunt Barbara took her in with one second's survey--her face, her neck, her beautiful dress, her whole air of ease and good-breeding, and gave a despairing glance at her own prickly tea-gown.
For the moment, amiably accustomed as she was to laugh at herself, she did not find it humourous.
"Miss Sylvia Falbe, Aunt Barbara," said Michael with a little tremor in his voice; "and Mr.Hermann Falbe, Lady Barbara Jerome," he added, rather as if he expected nobody to believe it.
Aunt Barbara made the best of it: shook hands in her jolly manner, and burst into laughter.
"Michael, I could slay you," she said; "but before I do that I must tell your friends all about it.

This horrible nephew of mine, Miss Falbe, promised me two weird musicians, and I expected--I really can't tell you what I expected--but there were to be spectacles and velveteen coats and the general air of an afternoon concert at Clapham Junction.