She took his arm and walked on beside him.
“I know that fascinating, hot-headed, lovable type of mystic visionary,” she said, “handsome, romantic, illogical, governed entirely by emotion, not fickle yet never to be depended on; not faithless, but absolutely irresponsible and utterly ignorant of fear!... My father was that sort. Not the hunting cheetah Cyril and Ferez pretended. And it was in defence of a woman that my father died.... Thank God!”
“Who told you?”
“Captain Renoux—the other night.”
“I’m so glad, Thessa!”
She held her flushed head high and smiled at him.
“You see,” she said, “after all it is in my blood to be decent.”
The Gerhardts, racially vulgar and socially blunt—for the inherent vulgarity of the Teutonic peoples is an axiom among the civilised—made themselves characteristically conspicuous at the flower-laden table; but it was on Murtagh Skeel that all eyes became ultimately focused to the limit of good-breeding. He was the lode-star—he was the magnet, the vanishing point for all curiosity, all surmises, all interest.
Perfect breeding, perfect unconsciousness of self, were his minted marks to guarantee the fineness of his metal. He was natural without effort, winning in voice, in manner, in grace of mind and body, this fascinating Irishman of letters—a charming listener, a persuasive speaker, modest, light hearted, delightfully deferential.