But for one long strident scrape—during which each held a breath—against a sunken ledge which the helmsman found her too close hauled to clear, they came valorously into the open sea, and Maurice, sitting over the gunwale to windward with the sheet in his hand, brought Lettice aft to steer.
He had the position of vantage, for she sat a foot beneath him, and, unlike hers, his eyes owed no attention to the sail.
She begged him not to look at her; but, feeling that observation was to her advantage, he only complied for a moment with her request.
Observation was to his advantage too; for if, with shut eyes, it was easier to remember what he had lost in his new possession, with them open it was impossible to forget what he had gained.
Only a dull man would have called Lettice Nevern beautiful, but the dullest could not have thought her plain.
She had, in its most dainty shape, that perfect imperfection known as prettiness. Distractingly pretty, most women called her; and men who were not thought easy of distraction had justified the label. She had a figure a sculptor would have prized, full, buoyant, flexible, with the grace of splendid health in every line. It was a consolation, Maurice reflected, to be able to admire an acquisition, even though one did not desire it. She had, too, an admirable temper, an eye for what became her, a dozen interests in the open air. That made for mutual accommodation, and he could imagine nothing in her which could lessen his respect.
His ignorance of women was based on too wide an acquaintance to be neglected, yet he felt sure that Lettice was no coquette.
And despite the gaiety with which her face was so charmingly inscribed, she could endure quietness—enjoy it even, as four summers at Ballindra proved.
On the whole he felt cause to thank Providence, as a man might, able to nurse his damaged limbs after an accident, that the catastrophe was, for him, no worse.
He was beginning to wonder what it might be for her.