“Richard,” she said, “take us somewhere where we can talk, you and I. I have such a heap of things to ask you and talk about. Twelve years—can it be twelve years since we last saw each other? Did you get my last letter?”
George du Telle was standing near smoking a cigar, and staring at the beautiful view with about the same amount of interest he would have felt had it been a soap advertisement, but she did not lower her voice. She was perfectly frank with the world and her husband.
This frankness carried her far, and enabled her sometimes to skate on ice that would have given under many a woman of half her weight, for it was a genuine frankness, not a thing put on.
She was a person whom women called nice-looking on first acquaintance, and men mentally registered as plain. Tall, pale, with an excellent figure, and gray eyes. A man met her and spoke to her, and found her plain but very jolly, increased the acquaintanceship and found her plainness vanishing, and then, all of a sudden, his foolish soul was caught in a trap.
It was the magic of her lips, perhaps. They formed the true Cupid’s bow, full, and seemingly cut by a chisel wielded by a master hand, sensitive and sensuous. Gazing at them one came to understand how in the ancient world tall Troy fell before a kiss.
“Which letter?” asked Leslie, plucking a lilac spray and strewing the ground with the tiny petals.
“The one I wrote six years ago telling you I was married. I sent it care of your father.”
“No,” said Leslie gloomily. “I have heard from no one for eight years and more. I cut the world, you know—or it cut me rather; but I’ll tell you some other time, here’s Campanula.”
Then they started, Leslie and his companion leading the way.
“Where are you going to take us?” asked Jane, when they had reached the street.