Alva’s eyes followed him with frank pleasure—not only that he was the handsomest man she had ever seen, but because something about him recalled to her the loved and lost one of her girlhood’s dreams.
“How like, how strangely like!” she thought, with silent pain.
And somehow her thoughts followed him on his way with a kindly interest just for the sake of the frank blue eyes that had looked at her gently like the eyes of her dead lover—dead, but not forgotten.
And as Alva’s thoughts followed him with a strange interest, so did the handsome Englishman’s fancy return to her during his brief journey to New York, dwelling with pleasure on her beauty.
“What a magnificent creature! The most beautiful American I ever saw! There was soul in those large dark eyes—soul and feeling as of one who has suffered! But what sorrow could come to the beautiful heiress, Miss Beresford?” he wondered, with deep sympathy, resolving that he would be very certain to accept her brother’s invitation, for the sake of seeing her again.
She was still in his thoughts, and his blue eyes had a dreamy look as he left the train and sought a carriage to convey him to a hotel.
It was late afternoon, and the great city was a Babel of noise and confusion.
Shaking off the spell thrown over him by Alva’s charms, he leaned from the window of the carriage, watching the unfamiliar scene with curious eyes.
The next moment he became the witness of an accident that thrilled him with alarm.
A beautiful young girl, who had attempted to cross the street, had been knocked down by a reckless bicyclist, who, with shameless indifference to what he had done, hurried on his way ere he could be arrested.