“I was about to suggest a visit to the Café Miramar. It is only a step from here.”
A few minutes later they sat at a little table on the terrace, and while Captain Over ordered the coffee and rolls Catalina forgot him and stared out over the vast blue sparkle of the Mediterranean. Above, the air had drifted from gold to pink—a soft, vague pink, stealing away before the mounting sun. She had pushed back her hat and coat, and the soft collar of her blouse showed a youthful column upon which her head was proudly set. She wore no hair on her fine, open brow, but the knot at the base of the neck was rich in color. Her complexion, without red to break its magnolia tint, was flawless even in that searching light. Her beautiful eyes were vacant for the moment, and her nose, while delicate, was unclassical, her cheek-bones high; but it was her mouth that arrested Over’s gaze as the most singular feature he had ever seen. Childishly red, it was deftly cut, and resembled—what was it? A bow? Certainly not a Cupid’s bow, for that was full and pouting. Then he recalled the Indian bows in the armory at home. That was it—the bow of an Indian bent sharply in the middle, so sharply that it was really two half-bows the mouth resembled, and absolutely perfect in its drawing, in the tapering sweep of its corners. A perfect mouth is a feature one may read of for a lifetime and never see, however many mouths there be that charm and invite. Pretty mouths are abundant enough, and mouths that indicate lofty or delightful characteristics, but rarely is the mouth seen for which nature has done all that she so generously does for eyes and profile. But for Catalina she had cut a mouth so exquisite that its first effect was of something uncanny, as of an unknown race, and it further held the attention as indicating absolutely nothing of the character behind.
Catalina dazedly removed her eyes from the sea and met Over’s.
“Stop staring at me,” she said, with a frown.
He was about to retort that she had been made to be stared at, but it occurred to him in time that he understood her too little to invite her into the airy region of compliment. He had known girls to resent them before, and they were not in his line anyway. He merely replied: “Here comes the coffee. I promise you to give it my undivided attention.”
They sat silent for a few moments, keenly appreciating their little repast. Coffee always went to Catalina’s head, and when she had finished she felt happy and full of good-fellowship.
“I like you immensely, and hope you’ll come with us,” she announced. “I’m rather sorry you are not a lord, though. I’ve never seen one.”
“Well, I have a cousin who is one, and if you like to come to England I’ll show him to you. He’s rather an ass, though, and you’ll probably guy him.”
“You are not very respectful to the head of your house.”
“Oh, he was my fag at school—he’s two years younger than I am.”