He had all the sensations of a man who is awakened from a
dream of Paradise to face the dull tortures of a dreary and eventless
life. His eyes were set in a fixed state. An undernote of despair was
in his tone.
"You know we arranged it yesterday," she continued eagerly, "and if
you are going to send for Mr. Aynesworth, you needn't bother about
these letters yourself, need you?"
He turned and regarded her deliberately. Her forehead was wrinkled a
little with disappointment, her brown eyes were filled with the soft
light of confident appeal. Tall and elegantly slim, there was yet
something in the graceful lines of her figure which reminded him
forcibly that the days of her womanhood had indeed arrived.
She wore a plain white cambric dress and a simple, but much beflowered
hat; the smaller details of her toilet all indicated the correct taste
and instinctive coquetry of her French descent. And she was beautiful!
Wingrave regarded her critically and realized, perhaps for the first
time, how beautiful. Her eyes were large and clear, and her eyebrows
delicately defined. Her mouth, with its slightly humorous curl, was a
little large, but wholly delightful. The sun of the last few weeks had
given to her skin a faint, but most becoming, duskiness. Under his
close scrutiny, a flush of color stole into her cheeks. She laughed
not altogether naturally.
"You look at me," she said, "as though I were someone strange!"
"I was looking," he answered, "for the child, the little black-frocked
child, you know, with the hair down her back, and the tearful eyes.
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