"My future wife," he announced, in an aside. "Mrs. Lyeth," he continued, "this is Mr. Ennever."
She was a woman such as the midland counties alone produce, one whom it would be proper to describe as queenly, were it not that queens are dowds. She just lacked being tall. Her hair was of that hue of citron which is noticeable in very young children, and it was arranged in the fashion we have copied from the Greeks, but her features were wholly English, features that the years would remold with coarser thumb, but which as yet preserved the freshness and the suavity of a pastel. One divined that her limbs were strong and supple. She held herself with a grace of her own, on her cheeks was a flush, her mouth seemed to promise more than any mortal mouth could give; in short, she was beautiful, a northern splendor in a tropic frame.
Tancred, who had risen with the general, stared for a second and bowed.
"Muhammad's prophecy is realized," he murmured; and as Mrs. Lyeth eyed him inquiringly, "At sunset," he added, "I behold a rising sun."
And moving forward he took her wrist and brushed it with his lips.
"One might fancy one's self at Versailles," Mrs. Lyeth replied, and sank into a wicker chair.
"Olympus, rather," Tancred corrected, and found a seat at her side.
"H'm," mused the lady; but evidently nothing pertinent could have occurred to her, for she hesitated a moment and then graciously enough remarked, "The general tells me he knows your father."
"Yes, it may even be that we are connected; there was a Sosinje van Lier who married an Ennever, oh, ages ago. The general, however, thinks she was not a relative of his."
"I have forgotten," the general interjected, and glanced at his future bride. "Is Liance never coming?"