Lady Cressage had inclined her classic profile even more
toward the piano. Thorpe was not stirred at all by
the music, but the spirit of it as it was reflected upon
this beautiful facial outline--sensitive, high-spirited,
somewhat sad withal--appealed to something in him.
He moved forward cautiously, noiselessly, a dozen
restricted paces, and halted again at the corner of a table.
It was a relief that the Honourable Balder, though he
followed along, respected now his obvious wish for silence.
But neither Balder nor anyone else could guess that
the music said less than nothing to his ears--that
it was the face that had beckoned him to advance.
Covertly, with momentary assurances that no one observed him,
he studied this face and mused upon it. The white candle-light
on the shining wall beyond threw everything into a soft,
uniform shadow, this side of the thread of dark tracery
which outlined forehead and nose and lips and chin.
It seemed to him that the eyes were closed, as in reverie;
he could not be sure.
So she would have been a Duchess if her husband had
lived! He said to himself that he had never seen before,
or imagined, a face which belonged so indubitably
beneath a tiara of strawberry leaves in diamonds.
The pride and grace and composure, yes, and melancholy,
of the great lady--they were all there in their supreme
expression.
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