Her skin, although white enough, had warm tones in it, and
under it still warmer tones--a brownish glow, like a sunburn that had
been transmitted by nomad ancestors who baked themselves under fierce
southern skies centuries ago. The gipsy blood showed to that extent in
her complexion, and to a greater extent in her hair.
And suddenly he thought of what Mavis had been as a girl. _She_ had a
white skin--if you please; much whiter than Norah's; but she was like
this girl in many respects, was Mavis when he first saw her. She and
Norah were as like as two peas out of one pod in the matter of looking
fragile and yet firm, as gracefully delicate of form as it is possible
to be without arousing any suspicion of debility or unhealthiness. The
back of Mavis' stooping neck used to be exactly like this girl's--a
smooth, round stem, without a crease or a speck on it, a solid,
healthy neck, and yet so slender that his great hand would almost
girdle it.
"Aren't I doing right?" Norah looked up quickly. "I'm copying the
addresses off the letters."
"No, you're doing quite right." Dale put his hands in his pockets and
moved away to the high stool. "What made you think you were doing
wrong?"
"Oh, I don't know.
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