Sonia Turgeinov spoke now softly to the steersman. What she said he did not know; his lack-luster gaze met hers. All dislike and disapproval seemed to have vanished from it; he saw her only as one sees a face in a daguerreotype of long ago, or looks at features limned by a soulless etcher.
"Do you see it?" he asked.
"What?"
"Trees? Aren't those trees?"
"I see nothing."
"You do. You must. They are there." He spoke almost roughly, as if she irritated him.
"Oh, yes. I think I do see something," she said, and started. "Like a speck?—a film?—a bird's wing, perhaps?"
In the bow the blanket again stirred. Then, as from the dull chrysalis emerge brightness and beauty, so from those dun folds sprang into the morning light a red-lipped, lovely vision.
"Trees," repeated the steersman to Sonia Turgeinov. "I am positive—" he went on, but lost interest in his own words. Fatigue seemed to fall from him in an instant; he stared.
From beneath her golden hair Betty Dalrymple's eyes flashed full upon him.