Once already have I described my imagination of her. There is no sense in going back to speak of it again. She was all I had thought. She was more. The tender olive of her skin brought no other picture to your mind than the lazy heat of the Southern sun. Not a moment's suggestion of racial coarseness was there in her features, but rather so delicate a refinement as made you apprehensive of what she must suffer in an ugly world. It was all as I had imagined it, even from that first moment in that restaurant in London, when I heard of her gown of canary-colored satin. She was as timid as a little bird, with just those same quick, silent movements of fear. No wonder she was afraid of the Miss Fennells! No wonder she had allowed herself thus willingly to be caged. It seemed as I looked at her there, with eyelids closed and turned to meet the sun, that God had made her in such a moment as when a potter, out of the sheer love of his art, turns for himself alone some slender, fragile thing upon the gentle motion of his wheel.
I knew then I had been right. My instinct, or whatever you like to call it, had had the light of truth in it when, on the bare hearing of her story, I had realized that here was a woman in trouble. However many hesitations I may have passed through, however often demurred, debating upon my right to interfere, all such considerations left me then. Her union with any man of the type I had seen in London could mean nothing but tragedy, nothing but pitiable disillusionment; wherefore my courage rose triumphant in me again. I was just waiting for her eyes to open that I might begin.
And at last she opened them. I saw that liquid blue white of old china, with the inimitable pattern of her great dark eyes set so wonderfully upon it; but as I looked at them and as they looked at me, it was suddenly borne into my mind the everlasting remembrance of myself.
The expression in her eyes was not the same as I had seen in those of the little nursery maid. I had never seen quite its like in the eyes of any woman before. But I knew well what it meant and instinctively, I suppose, I turned away and patted Dandy's head. He licked my hand in return.
"Well—" said I with an effort. "Isn't it a relief to get rid of that beastly veil?"
I said what I could—the first words that came to me. It would have been cruel indeed to her had I let her see that I had observed that expression of hers. But I am becoming adept at this. I can look at people now as though I were sure such thoughts of me could never enter their minds. I have even heard it said that I fancy myself good-looking so unconscious do I appear to be. That, of course, makes me laugh, for that is truly funny. I often remind myself of it as a corrective for depression.
Somehow this morning, however, it seemed I did not assume it so easily—possibly because it hurt a little more than usual. But why—why should it hurt any more? Unless it were that, in the pride of my success, I had forgotten what, usually, I am quite prepared to expect. And so it was with an effort that I spoke. But when I looked back again, because she was silent, I found her eyes dreaming to the far line of the horizon.
"Do you take pennies for your thoughts?" I asked.
A faint blush burnt quickly in her cheeks and she brought her eyes to earth.
"Was I thinking?" said she. "I don't know what I was thinking about."