That was how Sambo first saw her, sitting, very straight, in a high-backed chair, with the last light of the sunset on her clear, pale face. He said later that she had put him in mind of a Madonna, and there were not many women he knew who could do that. He stood in the doorway, staring at her, for quite a long time—so long that he never afterward forgot how she looked then, so still, so lovely, so aloof.[Pg 298] For a moment he was almost afraid to disturb her.
But the fear of disturbing other persons had not yet greatly influenced young Samuel Randall. He was a conqueror, nonchalant and superb. He took whatever things pleased him in this world. Slender, almost slight, with his fine features, his mournful dark eyes, he had a poetic and touching look about him; but it belied him. He was not poetic. He was greedy, and willful, and reckless.
He wanted to talk to this lovely image, so in he went.
“This a gentle hint?” he asked.
Geraldine put down her book and looked at him.
“I said I was coming to-day,” he went on, “and they’re all out. That mean I’m not wanted?”
And he smiled his charming, arrogant smile, for he knew so well that he was always wanted.
“Mrs. Page meant to be home by five,” said Geraldine, with no smile at all. “Something must have delayed her.”
“Then you’ll give me a cup of tea, won’t you? I’m Randall, you know.”
She said yes, none too cordially, and rang the bell for fresh tea. He sat down opposite her, slouching in his chair, his handsome head thrown back, his dark eyes watching her.