Hermione was, in fact, found very attractive by a great many people of
varying temperaments and abilities, who were captured by her spirit and
by her intellect, the soul of the woman and the brains, and who, while
seeing clearly and acknowledging frankly the plainness of her face and
the almost masculine ruggedness of her form, said, with a good deal of
truth, that "somehow they didn't seem to matter in Hermione." Whether
Hermione herself was of this opinion not many knew. Her general
popularity, perhaps, made the world incurious about the subject.

The room in which Hermione was reading the letters of Artois was small
and crammed with books. There were books in cases uncovered by glass from
floor to ceiling, some in beautiful bindings, but many in tattered paper
covers, books that looked as if they had been very much read. On several
tables, among photographs and vases of flowers, were more books and many
magazines, both English and foreign. A large writing-table was littered
with notes and letters. An upright grand-piano stood open, with a
quantity of music upon it. On the thick Persian carpet before the fire
was stretched a very large St. Bernard dog, with his muzzle resting on
his paws and his eyes blinking drowsily in serene contentment.

As Hermione read the letters one by one her face showed a panorama of
expressions, almost laughably indicative of her swiftly passing thoughts.
Sometimes she smiled. Once or twice she laughed aloud, startling the dog,
who lifted his massive head and gazed at her with profound inquiry. Then
she shook her head, looked grave, even sad, or earnest and full of
sympathy, which seemed longing to express itself in a torrent of
comforting words. Presently she put the letters together, tied them up
carelessly with a piece of twine, and put them back into the drawer from
which she had taken them. Just as she had finished doing this the door of
the room, which was ajar, was pushed softly open, and a dark-eyed,
Eastern-looking boy dressed in livery appeared.