Arrived at the Champ de Mars, the crowd gradually filtered into the Exhibition building. At the turnstile Bertie was separated from his uncle, who made a rush for another entrance. Immediately in front of him was a young girl, lissome and lithe of figure, attired in a raiment of soft, filmy, cloudy, floating white. He could detect a delicate little ear, and a white neck from which the hair was scrupulously lifted and arranged—she had removed her hat—dark and lustrous, tight and trim, in a fashion exceedingly becoming to the beautiful, but trying to the more ordinary of womankind.
Have we not all at some time or another felt that something strange was going to happen to us? that steps were coming nearer and nearer? that a voice was calling to us at a great way off that would presently become more distinct?
A something urged Bertram Martin to see this girl’s face. Was it mere curiosity? No. The impulse was indefinable as a subtle perfume, indefinable as a sweet sound in music. A shapely head, and lustrous hair, and a lissome form—this was a very ordinary scaffolding whereon to build a romance, and, although the young doctor would have laughed anybody to scorn who would have taxed him with being romantic, there was no boy of half his age and quarter his experience more likely to make a fool of himself about a woman than Bertie Martin.
He had led his life amongst his books, his profession his mistress. Too much absorbed in the engrossing duties attendant upon the alleviation of the ills the flesh is heir to, he was in the world and yet not of it, beholding it as through a polished sheet of plate-glass. His mother, a woman of the highest culture, refinement, taste, and ability, had vainly urged upon him the necessity of taking part in the gayeties of a very extended and highly fashionable circle—vainly, indeed; for having on a few occasions attended “swell” receptions and upper-crust entertainments, he squarely pilloried himself in a cui bono? and from that hour the butterfly world knew him no more.
He is tall, lightly built, graceful. His eyes are dark gray, full of earnestness, and blazing with intelligence. His mouth is absolutely faultless, having at command a smile, a veritable ray of sunshine. His light-brown moustache and beard have never known the razor. He dresses well, and is a dandy in gloves and boots.
He must see that girl’s face, and he plunged forward despite the sacr-r-ré of an infuriated Frenchman and the full-flavored exclamation of a London cockney, into whose ribs he had plunged his right elbow. At this moment she turned her head a little to address a portly gentleman behind, who, with a flushed face and a general appearance of acute physical and mental suffering, through heat, crush, and excitement, had been urging her to push onwards.
Her profile was simply lovely: one inch of forehead; a nose a trifle out of the regular line of beauty; eyelashes that swept her cheeks; a short upper lip with a tremulous curl in it, a rich red under one, and a chin worthy the chisel of Phidias. And yet, despite its classical contour, her face was Irish—yea, that delicious ensemble which Erin bestows upon her daughters, placing them above all in beauty, in archness, and in purity of expression.
“She is lovely,” murmured Bertie, gazing at her with all his eyes.
A rush came, a great pressure from behind, and the wave flung him beyond the turnstile.
“Well done, old fellow!” cried Kirwan, clapping him on the back.