Then he turned
around. The woman who stood upon the threshold of the house, framed
with a little cascade of drooping roses, sought for his eyes almost
hungrily. He realised how she must be feeling. A dormant vein of
cynicism parted his lips as he held her fingers for a moment. His tone
and his manner were quite natural.
"We were, I believe, unusually punctual," he admitted. "What an
extraordinary mist! Up over there was no sign of it at all."
She shivered. Her eyes were still watching his face, seeking for an
answer to her unasked question. Blue eyes they were, which had been
beautiful in their day, a little hard and anxious now. She wore a white
dress, simple with the simplicity of supreme and expensive art. A rope
of pearls was her only ornament. Her hair was somewhat elaborately
coiffured, there was a touch of rouge upon her cheeks, and the
unscreened evening sunlight was scarcely kind to her rather wan features
and carefully arranged complexion. She still had her claims to beauty,
however. Tallente admitted that to himself as he stood there appraising
her, with a strange and almost impersonal regard,--his wife of thirteen
years.
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