“’Morning, Madam,”—there was the old briskness, and alertness in his tone!—“what can I——”
She straightened herself and turned regally.
“Good morning, Martin,” she said smiling. Her color was high, she was trembling, her pulses racing.
There was a quick jerk of his head,—a well-remembered mannerism,—and a lightning survey of her features.
“Good God! ... Jan!”
Emotions played in his face, his eyes darted about her, his color faded and flamed darkly. His confusion gave her composure. He was handsome still, smooth-shaven and clean; his cheeks were fuller, a trifle florid, he had a well-defined double-chin, his black, thick hair was streaked with wiry, white threads; he had grown stouter, had acquired a girth, but his fatness was robust and healthy. He had gained in presence, in firmness of feature, in polish,—a man of business and affairs, energetic, a leader.
“Are you surprised to see me, Martin?”
“Well, of course, ... well, ... I should say!”
She was conscious that her beauty and stateliness, her costume, her fashionableness overwhelmed him.
“I’ll be ... I’ll be damned!” he enunciated. “Excuse me, Jan,—but I’ll be ... I’ll be damned!”