There was another married woman present—Mrs. Thomson, the wife of Dr. MacKay's colleague. Youthful in face and figure, she was dressed plainly, almost to the verge of severity. But her quick wit and vivacious manner gathered a little group of the guests about her, and more than atoned for the commonplace dulness of her husband.
Standing among some tropic plants just outside a French window, Sinclair, unobserved himself, was able to study each one in succession. But ever and anon his eyes turned to where nearly half the men present had gathered around the only other woman who was there to grace the occasion. Miss MacAllister was facing him, and he could note every play of expression on her countenance. There was a rapid exchange of conversation, and she had an answer for every one. The rippling laughter he had heard on the deck of the Hailoong now sounded over the murmur of voices in the drawing-room.
"What a queenly stature and bearing!" Sinclair thought to himself.
It was true. Miss MacAllister was taller than all but one of the little circle of men gathered about her. She held her small head, with its wavy crown of rich brown hair, as if she were proud of her commanding height. Her eyes, so dark a blue that in the light of the candles they seemed black, looked right over the heads of the men of average stature.
Yet, if her height was masculine, there was nothing masculine about her figure. Though well proportioned and vigorous, it gave the general impression of slightness. Neither was there a trace of masculinity about the face. It was thoroughly feminine, with its somewhat low forehead, its small, straight nose, the rich, Highland colour in the softly-rounded cheeks, the small chin, and the lips parted in merry laughter—a thoroughly girlish face.
Keeping himself in the shadow, and looking at her in the bright light of the drawing-room, Sinclair thought that rarely, if ever, had he seen a more strikingly beautiful woman. He wondered that he had not noticed it before. Then he laughed to himself as he remembered that, during their short acquaintance, he had so often suffered from her raillery that he had been in little humour for appreciation or admiration.
"A pretty picture, that!" said McLeod's voice at his shoulder. "I am glad to see you enjoying it, doctor."
"Until I get better acquainted I prefer looking on to taking part in the conversation. It's an interesting study."
"Isn't she a beauty? That evening rig sets her off to perfection." McLeod generally used nautical terms to describe dress, on which he was not an expert.
"I see that you are still on the same tack," replied Sinclair, with a laugh. "But really I agree with you that the 'rig' does suit her, and that she is a beauty. Who is that tall, dark fellow who is trying to monopolize the conversation with her?"