CHAPTER XI
That first dinner would always remain vivid and clear-cut in Jane Norman’s mind. It was fantastic. To begin with, there was that picturesque stone image at the head of the table—Cleigh—who appeared utterly oblivious of his surroundings, who ate with apparent relish, and who ignored both men, his son and his captor. Once or twice Jane caught his glance—a blue eye, sharp-pupiled, agate-hard. But what was it she saw—a twinkle or a sparkle? The breadth of his shoulders! He must be very powerful, like the son. Why, the two of them could have pulverized this pretty fellow opposite!
Father and son! For seven years they had not met. Their indifference seemed so inhuman! Still, she fancied that the son dared not make any approach, however much he may have longed to. A woman! They had quarrelled over a woman! Something reached down from the invisible and pinched her heart.
All this while Cunningham had been talking—banter. The blade would flash toward the father or whirl upon the son, or it would come toward 129 her by the handle. She could not get away from the initial idea—that his eyes were like fire opals.
“Miss Norman, you have very beautiful hair.”
“You think so?”
“It looks like Judith’s. You remember, Cleigh, the one that hangs in the Pitti Galleria in Florence—Allori’s?”
Cleigh reached for a piece of bread, which he broke and buttered.