People, seeing her standing there, and noting her likeness to the picture, looked at her with curiosity, and passed on, murmuring that she was an interesting type.

They did not talk to her, either because they were afraid she could not talk of the things they could talk of, or that they could not talk of the things she could talk of, or because they were anxious not to seem to patronize her.

She talked to one, therefore.

This occasioned Hilary some distress.

He kept coming up and smiling at her, or making tentative remarks or jests, to which she would reply, "Yes, Mr.Dallison," or "No, Mr.Dallison," as the case might be.
Seeing him return from one of these little visits, an Art Critic standing before the picture had smiled, and his round, clean-shaven, sensual face had assumed a greenish tint in eyes and cheeks, as of the fat in turtle soup.
The only two other people who had noticed her particularly were those old acquaintances, Mr.Purcey and Mr.Stone.