"I hope so," she said frankly. "It's dreadful waiting on people one doesn't like. Last summer we had a gentleman who——"
"Yes," said Mark, lighting his pipe.
"Who wasn't a gentleman—and I hated him."
She looked serious. Her face was charming, because the texture of skin and the colouring were so admirable. For the rest she was about middle height, of trim figure, neither thin nor plump: her eyes were of a clear, intelligent grey, shaded by short black lashes which gave them distinction and vivacity. Long lashes may be a beauty in themselves, but they conceal rather than reveal the eyes behind them. Mary had brown hair, and plenty of it, simply arranged; her mouth was wide and amply provided with white, even teeth; her nose was certainly tip-tilted. Altogether a young woman at whom most men would look with pleasure.
As she stood in the garden, the May sun falling full upon her, every line of face and figure suggested Spring: Spring in Arcady, fresh, joyous, radiant. Mark was artist enough to perceive the delicious half-tones, the tender shades beneath the round chin and about the finely modelled cheeks. If Pynsent saw her, he would be mad to paint her, there, in the crisp sunlight, amongst the honeysuckle, with the pines "ever sighing, ever singing" behind her.
Suddenly, a thin, querulous note seemed to pierce the silence of the garden.
"Mary—Mary!"
"Mother wants me. Good-bye, Mr. Samphire."
Mark held out his hand.
"Good-bye—till to-morrow."