Did he, then, think that she was beautiful? Had he not denied it? For the first time she lifted her eyes, giving their soft radiance, so mild, so penetrating, out fully to the world. And every pulse in him had leaped with but the one cry,
"Oh, thou art fairer than the evening air,
Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars!"
"Your name?"
"Christina Hope."
"Occupation?"
"Actress."
"Age?"
"Twenty-two years."
Through the light, clear silver of Christina's speech there ran a strain deeper, lower, richer colored,—Irish girls speak so, sometimes. It trailed along the listener's heart; it dragged; it drawled; by the unsympathetic it might have been called husky. Conceivably, creatures may have existed who did not care for it. But to those who did, it was the last turn of the screw.
"Name?"