“No, no!” she ejaculated in a tone of horror. “Make no further inquiry. Try and forget all—everything—as I shall try and forget. You cannot know—you will never know—therefore it is utterly useless to seek to learn the truth.”
“And may I not even know your identity?” I inquired, putting forth my hand until it rested upon her well-formed shoulder. “May I not touch your face, so as to give me an impression of your personal appearance?”
She laughed at what, of course, must have seemed to her a rather amusing request.
“Give me permission to do this,” I urged. “If there is to be mutual trust between us it is only fair that I should know whether you are young or old.”
She hesitated. I felt her hand trembling.
“Remember, I cannot see you,” I went on. “By touch I can convey to my mind an impression of the contour of your features, and thus know with whom I am dealing.”
“Very well,” she said at last. “You have my permission.”
Then eagerly, with both my hands, I touched her face, while she stood rigid and motionless as a statue. I could feel by the contraction of the muscles that this action of mine amused her, and that she was laughing.
Her skin was soft as velvet, her lashes long, her features regular and finely cut like those of some old cameo. Her hair was dressed plainly, and she had about her shoulders a large cape of rich fur—sable I believed it to be. There was no doubt she was young, perhaps not more than twenty-one or so, and certainly she was very handsome of countenance, and dressed with an elegance quite unusual.
Her mouth was small, her chin pointed, and her cheeks with a firm contour which spoke of health and happiness. As I carefully passed my hands backwards and forwards, obtaining a fresh mental impression with each movement, she laughed outright.