He never in his life felt clearer-headed than when he went up the stairs unannounced, and paused to look through the half opened door at Gwen, sitting near a window in a cloudy dress of soft yellow crêpey stuff and with her strong, long-fingered, composed hands lying idle in her lap and the guard dropped from her eyes, showing a good deal more of herself than he had ever seen before.
He only paused for one minute, he had no right yet to the girl’s secrets; then he threw open the door with a little bang and brought her back to the present.
“Oh, is it you?” she said with the ghost of a start, looking up at him.
She felt in a vague way that he knew more of her in that one minute than he had any business to do, and she was not quite sure if she liked it or not. He did not offer to shake hands with her but glanced round the room silently. Gwen laughed.
“You are looking for Lady Mary? She has a bad headache, an abnormally bad one, and won’t be down till five.”
He offered up a dumb thanksgiving and sat down carefully, then he felt a horrible desire to say, “Hem!” or to mention the deuce or the weather.
He had felt intensely reasonable the minute before, but he was confused by the beauty of the girl sitting so close to him, with the flickering sunshine running golden threads in and out her twisted russet hair, and clothing her in pale molten gold.
“She shall have nothing to add to her beauty,” he thought, “I shall not make a beast of myself to desire the least of her when it is the greatest I want.”
He started up, and asked if he might draw down the blinds.
“Yes,” said Gwen wonderingly, as she saw his big brown hand tremble on the blind line.