He resented the name of Beauty Stuart and yet down in his man soul he knew that he was vain.
He began to wonder if she were blonde or brunette, short or tall, petite or full, blue eyes or brown? She must be pretty. Her father was a man of delicate and finely marked features—the type of Scotch-Irish gentlemen who had made the mountains of Virginia famous for pretty women and brainy men.
He heard her softly playing a piano and wondered how on earth they had ever moved a piano to this far outpost of civilization. The cost was enormous. But the motive of her father in making such a sacrifice to please her was more important. His love for her must be unusual. It piqued his interest and roused again his impulse for a battle royal with another elusive daughter of his native state.
He made up his mind not to wait for the call to lunch. He would walk boldly into the reception room and introduce himself. She knew he was there, of course.
At the first sound of his footstep, her hand paused on the keys and she turned to greet him, rising quickly, and easily.
The vision which greeted Stuart stunned him for a moment. A perfect blonde with laughing blue eyes, exactly the color of his own, slim and graceful, a smile that was sunlight, and a step that was grace incarnate.
And yet her beauty was not the thing that stunned him. He had discounted her good looks from a study of her father's delicate face. It was the glow of a charming personality that disarmed him at the first glance.
She extended a slender hand with a smile.
"I'm so glad to meet you, Lieutenant Stuart."
He took it awkwardly, and blushed. He mumbled when he spoke and was conscious that his voice was thick.