And Stewart Thrall said to himself: "To watch her countenance is like watching the surface of a land-locked lake—one moment glass-smooth beneath the sun, then reflecting a slow white cloud, then breaking into ripples, fretting into waves and blackening to sudden storm! Ah, surely you are the headlong Capulet in love with love!" and his meditation broke off short.
Lefebvre was advancing, diamond coronet in hand, and he anxiously waited results. Nonna Angelique, with stumpy brown fingers, had still further loosened Sybil's black hair and fluffed it out, crooning to herself the while, and had turned her head this way and that, bent it down, lifted it, then put her hand out for the coronet her husband brought, placed it, drew back a step, then tore it off to a chorus of, "o! no!"
"Too old!" said Lefebvre.
"C'est cela! too old!" nodded Nonna Angelique.
"Too old!" acquiesced Thrall.
Then was handed over a golden net, studded with jewels; and oh, Sybil did hope they would let her wear that!
Old Angelique put it on with deft hands. "Mais comme elle est belle!" she exclaimed; "but——"
Thrall shook his head and repeated: "Beautiful, but——"
And the old man explained the "buts" fully with the remark: "Too Zingary, n'est ce pas?"
"Yes! yes!" cried Nonna, throwing her arms over her head and snapping her fingers to imitate castanets. "Oui! oui! too Zingary—too gypsy-like!" and off came the golden net.