At that moment her girlish grace was irresistible.
“I think it is not only appropriate, but”––looking at her and not at the costume––“beautiful!”
A gleam like laughter came into her eyes; nor did she shun his kindling gaze.
“Thank you!” she said, and courtesied low.
That same evening Spedella’s fencing rooms were fairly thronged with devotees of the ancient art of puncturing. The master of the place was a tall Italian, lank and lean, all bone and muscle, with a Don Quixote visage, barring a certain villainous expression of the eyes, irreconcilable with the chivalrous knight-errant of distressed Dulcineas. But every man with a bad eye is not necessarily a rascallion, and Spedella, perhaps, was better than he looked. With a most melancholy glance he was now watching two combatants, novices in feats of arms. Dejection sat upon his brow; he yawned over a clumsy feinte seconde, when his sinister eyes fell on a figure that had just entered the hall. Immediately his melancholy vanished, and he advanced to meet the newcomer with stately cordiality.
“Well met, Mr. Mauville,” he exclaimed, extending a bony hand that had fingers like the grip of death. “What good fortune brought you here?”
“An ill wind, Spedella, rather!”
“It’s like a breath of the old days to see you; the old days before you began your wanderings!”