"I can't think where I have seen that girl before," said Sheila thoughtfully, drumming her fingers on the white rail, her soft eyes fixed upon the jewelled bay. "She has an arresting face."
"You have never seen her," said Saltash carelessly, flicking cigarette-ash overboard. "She has the sort of face that the old Italians worshipped and some of the moderns too. You have seen it in their pictures."
Sheila's brows were drawn. "I have seen her—somehow—dressed as a boy," she said. "Could it have been a picture?"
"Yes. One of Spentoli's. I've got a print somewhere. It's called, 'The
Victim'—a lad with a face like Larpent's daughter, fighting a leopard."
Saltash spoke with easy conviction, his restless eyes flashing to and fro, often glancing but never resting upon the girl beside him. "That's what you're thinking of. It's an unsatisfactory sort of picture. One wonders which is 'The Victim.' But that is Spentoli all over. He always leaves one wondering."
"I know the thing you mean." Sheila nodded meditatively. "Yes, she is—rather like that. The boy was 'The Victim' of course." She turned towards him suddenly with the words. "You can't possibly doubt that. The brute's teeth are almost in his throat. I think it's a horrible picture myself."
Saltash laughed. "A deliverer arrives sometimes," he remarked, "even in the last, most awful moment of all. Have you never said to yourself how seldom the thing we really expect comes to pass?"
Sheila's lips parted with a touch of scorn. "Perhaps it is safer not to expect," she said.
"Perhaps," agreed Saltash, with his quick grimace. "I learnt that lesson a long time ago. There are so many slips—especially when the cup is full." He added inconsequently, "And even if it gets there, the wine is sour as often as not when you come to drink."
"I can quite believe it," said the girl, and looked out once more over the wreathing flowers to the rippling waters of the bay.