"Good heavens!" muttered Harley. "So soon? Why, she can only
just--" He checked himself. "Show them in, Miss Smith," he
directed.
As the typist went out, followed by Innes, Paul Harley found
himself thinking of the photograph in Sir Charles Abingdon's
library and waiting with an almost feverish expectancy for the
appearance of the original.
Almost immediately Phil Abingdon came in, accompanied by the
sepulchral Doctor McMurdoch. And Harley found himself wondering
whether her eyes were really violet-coloured or whether intense
emotion heroically repressed had temporarily lent them that
appearance.
Surprise was the predominant quality of his first impression. Sir
Charles Abingdon's daughter was so exceedingly vital--petite and
slender, yet instinct with force. The seeming repose of the
photograph was misleading. That her glance could be naive he
realized--as it could also be gay--and now her eyes were sad with
a sadness so deep as to dispel the impression of lightness
created by her dainty form, her alluring, mobile lips, and the
fascinating, wavy, red-brown hair.
She did not wear mourning. He recalled that there had been no
time to procure it. She was exquisitely and fashionably dressed,
and even the pallor of grief could not rob her cheeks of the
bloom born of Devon sunshine. He had expected her to be pretty.
He was surprised to find her lovely.
Doctor McMurdoch stood silent in the doorway, saying nothing by
way of introduction.
Pages:
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73