It had always to his eyes been, from the moment he first
beheld it, the most beautiful face in the world--exquisitely
matchless in its form and delicacy of line and serene
yet sensitive grace. But he had not seen in it before,
or guessed that there could come to it, this crowning
added loveliness of feminine confusion.
"You would like it, wouldn't you?" he repeated in a lower,
more strenuous tone.
She lifted her eyes slowly, and looked, not into his,
but over his shoulder, as in a reverie, half meditation,
half languorous dreaming. She swayed rather than stepped
toward him.
"I think," she answered, in a musing murmur,--"I think
I shall like--everything."
CHAPTER XXVII
THORPE found the Duke of Glastonbury a much more interesting
person to watch and to talk with, both during the dinner
Saturday evening and later, than he had anticipated.
He was young, and slight of frame, and not at all imposing
in stature, but he bore himself with a certain shy courtliness
of carriage which had a distinction of its own. His face,
with its little black moustache and large dark eyes,
was fine upon examination, but in some elusively foreign way.
There lingered a foreign note, too, in the way he talked.
His speech was English enough to the ear, it was true,
but it was the considered English of a book, and its
phrases had a deftness which was hardly native.
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