She was beautiful, after all! That was Stretton's first thought. She was as stately as a queen, with a natural crown of golden-brown hair upon her well-poised head; the grand lines of her figure were emphasized by the plainness of her soft, white dress, which fell to her feet in folds that a sculptor might have envied. The only ornament she wore was a string of Venetian beads round the milky whiteness of her throat, but her beauty was not of a kind that required adornment. It was like that of a flower—perfect in itself, and quite independent of exterior aid. In fact, she was not unlike some tall and stately blossom, or so Stretton thought, no exotic flower, but something as strong and hardy as it was at the same time delicately beautiful. Her eyes had the colouring that one sees in the iris-lily sometimes—a tint which is almost grey, but merges into purple; eyes, as the poet says—
"Too expressive to be blue.
Too lovely to be grey."
In her arms she carried little Jack Heron, and by the way in which she held him, it was plain that she was well accustomed to the burden, and that his light weight did not tire her well-knit, vigorous limbs. His pale, little face looked wistfully at the stranger; it was a curious contrast to the glowing yet delicate beauty and perfect health presented by the countenance of his cousin Elizabeth.
Meanwhile, Mr. Heron was introducing the stranger, which he did with a note of apology in his voice, which Stretton was not slow to remark. But Elizabeth—he did not catch her name, and still thought her to be a Miss Heron—soon put him at his ease. She accompanied the artist and his friend round the banqueting-hall, as they inspected the fine, old pictures with which it was hung; she walked with them on the terrace—little Jack still cradled in her arms; and wheresoever she went, it seemed to Stretton that he had never in all his life seen any woman half so fair.
He did not leave the house, after all, until late that night. He dined with the Herons; he saw Mrs. Heron, and Kitty, and the boys; but he had no eyes nor ears for anyone but Elizabeth. He did not know why she charmed him; he knew only that it was a pleasure to him to see and hear her slightest word and movement; and he put this down to the fact that she had a sympathetic voice, and a face of undoubted beauty. But in very truth, John Stretton—alias Brian Luttrell—returned to his inn that night in the brilliant Italian moonlight, having (for the first time in his life, be it observed) fallen desperately, passionately in love. And the woman that he loved was the heiress of the Luttrell estates; the last person in the world whom he would have dreamt of loving, had he but known her name.
CHAPTER XVI.
"WITHOUT A REFERENCE."
Brian—or to avoid confusion, let us call him by the name that he had adopted, Stretton—rose early, drank a cup of coffee, and was sitting in the little verandah outside the inn, looking dreamily out towards a distant view of the sea, and thinking (must the truth be told?) of Elizabeth, when a visitor was announced. He looked round, and, to his surprise, beheld Mr. Heron.
The artist was graver in manner and also a little more nervous than usual. After the first greetings were over he sank into an embarrassed silence, played with his watch-chain and his eye-glass, and, at last, burst somewhat abruptly into the subject upon which he had really come to speak.