He was transfigured; he was a man
of monstrous energy, of tremendous enthusiasm. Then the
enthusiasm vanished. He was a creature of stone again; the
familiar and taciturn Nicol Brinn, known and puzzled over in the
club lands of the world.
"Name?"
"She gave none."
"English?"
"No, sir, a foreign lady."
"In."
Hoskins having retired, and having silently closed the door,
Nicol Brinn did an extraordinary thing, a thing which none of his
friends in London, Paris, or New York would ever have supposed
him capable of doing. He raised his clenched hands. "Please God
she has come," he whispered. "Dare I believe it? Dare I believe
it?"
The door was opened again, and Hoskins, standing just inside,
announced: "The lady to see you, sir."
He stepped aside and bowed as a tall, slender woman entered the
room. She wore a long wrap trimmed with fur, the collar turned up
about her face. Three steps forward she took and stopped. Hoskins
withdrew and closed the door.
At that, while Nicol Brinn watched her with completely
transfigured features, the woman allowed the cloak to slip from
her shoulders, and, raising her head, extended both her hands,
uttering a subdued cry of greeting that was almost a sob. She was
dark, with the darkness of the East, but beautiful with a beauty
that was tragic. Her eyes were glorious wells of sadness, seeming
to mirror a soul that had known a hundred ages.
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