She had the bloom of Holland in her cheek, and the grace of Spain in her carriage and bearing. An exquisite costume of pale yellow silk became the brunette character of her beauty well; creamy lace fell away in folds from the snowy arms it revealed; perfume, brilliance, and softness were about her.
There was a step on the gravel; her colour deepened.
'Morganstjern—Cousin Maurice!' she muttered with a tone of annoyance, as he approached her with hat in hand.
Would this creature, so incomparably lovely and winning, ever belong to him, and lie in his bosom? he was thinking as he surveyed her; was she not rather drifting away from him, and would soon, unless he took strong and sure measures with yonder accursed Schottlander, be lost to him and his world for ever?
'Always becomingly dressed, Dolores,' said he, stooping over her; 'but this costume especially suits your style of loveliness.'
'You must not say such things to me,' she replied with some asperity.
'How—why?'
'I mean such pretty or complimentary things, Maurice Morganstjern; because if you do——'
'What then?'
'I shall think that I have forfeited your friendship.'