She was pretty, slim (Diana would have called her “skinny”), spirituelle. In the deep, dark eyes was mystery ... elusiveness; something that occasionally made his flesh creep pleasantly.
Gordon Selsbury was not in love. He was not the easily loving kind. It pleased him to know that he had a mystery of his own—he had once been described as “sphinx-like.”
If Diana had been older and were not his cousin, and had not in her masterful way installed herself in his house, defiant of the conventions, and were not so infernally sarcastic and self-sufficient—well, he might feel nicer toward her.
Talking of Diana....
He looked at the watch on his wrist. He had told her he would be in for dinner. Heloise saw the movement and smiled inwardly.
“Was it serious, that affair of hers?” she asked gently.
Gordon coughed. Heloise never met him but she talked of Diana’s affair. It was a curious piece of femininity that he did not expect to find in a woman. Not his kind of woman.
He was relieved of the necessity for answering.
“Who is that man, Gordon?”
The skiff had passed twice under the hotel terrace where they sat at tea that afternoon, and twice the big, red-faced man had peered up at the two people.