Calvert had begun to help Farquharson because he foresaw that the latter was one who would get on, Evelyn decided quickly; but he helped him now from love, not charity. The world which only knew him in his aspect as a shrewd business man would never divine the later motive. But Evelyn's heart went out to him impulsively, as it always went out to those who gave, whatever the bestowal.
Farquharson himself, the prominent factor in the group of figures, alone was in the shadow. Between him and Evelyn, Hare, Beadon and Dora stood; it was not until he was actually within a few feet of her that she saw him clearly. And then it was rather of his mental than of his physical aspect that she received the real impression. Tall and well made, dark and pale, he had presence and distinction, and remarkable composure. Supremely conscious of himself, the knowledge did not disturb him for a moment. Most men depend upon the external view for an effective entry; Farquharson's was attractive. But it was actually the singleness of the man's aim, his sincerity and sense of grip that carried conviction to the critical little group which concentrated its interest in his approach. It saw that he was born to succeed. For he not only had his goal in view, but would attain it.
"Wait, though," thought Hare. "No strong man yet but can be turned by a slight obstacle."
Steady and resourceful, knowing that he was being weighed in the balance, Farquharson busied himself with weighing others. No single detail of his surroundings was lost upon him. Evelyn watched him rapidly gauge and sum up one after another, the character of each person present.
In Beadon he recognized a man who might help, for whose favour he must in any case bid openly. He was a necessary factor in his—Farquharson's—career; without him nothing could be done. Between the young man and Hare, the rugged critic, an odd kind of attraction would exist; loyalty even in antagonism. Meavy, the idealist, Farquharson passed over with a cursory glance; a weak man, this, whatever the world might say. Creagh's cordiality he could appreciate, but native caution made him fear to trust it. People did not usually give without some adequate return, and for the moment he did not see how he could serve Creagh. Miss Beadon, as a woman, he ignored; his glance simply disposed of her. Her presence or non-presence meant nothing to him. As for Evelyn, he knew her name, and she had influence. He distrusted women with influence, but they were worth conciliating.
Their eyes met. He started slightly.
Before him stood a woman whose face changed indescribably, but who always possessed fascination. Slender and pale, Evelyn's one real beauty lay in the shape of her features, the modelling of her face; in the extraordinary light and shadows that made her eyes profound, her look a spur to flick a man's blood into action, or a caress in which he might find peace. And as Farquharson looked another picture rose suddenly before him, a vision of his childhood. The oval face, the dusky hair that waved back from the forehead, the turn of the rounded throat, the shape of the small head, all were familiar. He recognized them. They were his own—he had loved them long ago. He had stood before them night after night in the picture-gallery at Glune.
"A woman to dream of and to work beside." As Kilmaurs had written about Margaret Cunningham, in a lyric the ink of which had faded many years before, so Richard Farquharson felt now for the woman of his dreams. Here, in the flesh she stood before him, perfect companion, perfect lover and wife. He looked half smiling at her hands—the hands he had loved in the picture—and for the first time wondered what it would be to a man to feel such hands about his throat, drawing him down in mute surrender.
"Non so dirvi la sensasione che mi danno." A scene in D'Annuncio's play came back to him; the sight of the slender figure recalled Bianca Maria's passionate appeal to Anna, when the blind woman's hands were passing, feature by feature, across the girl's face, feeling for the beauties which she could not see, but for which others hungered.... "Sembra che le vostre dita vedano.... E come uno sguardo che insista, che prema, sembra die tutta l' anima discenda all' estremita delle vostre dita."
"Sembra che tutta l' anima discenda all' estremita delle vostre dita."