"That you never saw me before, that you are here in this house after meeting me half an hour ago, and that you can stay here the night?"
"Yes."
"Well, it's true."
She was once more the hostess. It was as if some one had sprung nimbly from a little height to the ground.
"I can't give you any whisky. But I can make you tea. Or have my maid brew you some coffee."
"Is that a Russian samovar?"
"Then I'll have tea."
So queer! Without the wind blustered and the little din of it crept into the room somehow, and within was warmth, and the stillness of still trees. And grace. Beauty moved like an actress on the stage. All her motions were harmonious, could have gone to some music on the violin. Now it was the easy dropping to her knees as she lit the quaint Russian teapot, now an unconscious movement of her hand to push back a braid of her hair, now the firm certain motion of her strong white unringed fingers. Now her large graceful body moved like some heroic statue that had become quick with life. The thought came into his head, somehow, that if he had had a sister he would have liked her to have been like this splendid blond woman....
Yet into this house, where she had settled like some strange bird in an alien land, came ships' masters, reeking with drink, came merchants with their minds full of buying and selling and all the petty meannesses of trade, came dark Latins who hankered for blond women....