Frank, blue-gray eyes they were, stirred to their depths now by
amusement. She smiled at Senorita Rodriguez, in token of recognition.
"Aren't they wonderful?" asked Senorita Rodriguez with the quick,
bubbling enthusiasm of her race.
"What?" asked Mr. Grimm.
"Her eyes," was the reply. "Every person has one dominant feature--with
Miss Thorne it is her eyes."
"Miss Thorne?" Mr. Grimm repeated.
"Haven't you met her?" the senorita went on. "Miss Isabel Thorne? She
only arrived a few days ago--the night of the state ball. She's my
guest at the legation. When an opportunity comes I shall present you to
her."
She ran on, about other things, with only an occasional remark from Mr.
Grimm, who was thoughtfully nursing his knee. Somewhere through the
chatter and effervescent gaiety, mingling with the sound of the pulsing
music, he had a singular impression of a rhythmical beat, an indistinct
tattoo, noticeable, perhaps, only because of its monotony. After a
moment he shot a quick glance at Miss Thorne and understood; it was the
tapping of an exquisitely wrought ivory fan against one of her tapering,
gloved fingers.
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