He felt some
curiosity about her. How would she greet him? How would she receive him?
He wrote to her at once, asking permission to visit her, and he came
away from that visit with his eyes a little dazzled, his brain somewhat
dazed, but his heart untouched. His fancy was somewhat disturbed by the
haunting memory of dark, splendid eyes, lighted with fire and passion,
and a bright, radiant face and scarlet lips--by a _melange_ of amber,
lace, and perfume--but his heart was untouched. She was beautiful beyond
his fairest dreams of woman--he owned that to himself--but it was not
the kind of beauty that he admired it was too vivid, too highly colored,
too brilliant. He preferred the sweet, pure lily to the queenly rose.
Still he said to himself that he had never seen a face or figure like
Miss L'Estrange's. No wonder that she had half London at her feet.
He was pleased with her kind reception of him, although he had not read
her welcome aright; he was too true a gentleman even to think that it
was love which shone in her eyes and trembled on her lips--love which
made her voice falter and die away--love which caused her to exert every
art and grace of which she was mistress to fascinate him.
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