She did not let
me drift away and sit in a corner looking on, as I usually did among
strangers. She kept me near her, and in some subtle, gentle way made me
a part of all that was happening--the talk, the charming circle under
the spreading boughs of the apple-tree, the charm of everything.
Sometimes she would put out her exquisite, long-fingered hand and touch
me very lightly, and each time she did it I felt as if she had given me
new life.
There was an interesting elderly man who came among the rest of the
guests. I was interested in him even before she spoke to me of him. He
had a handsome, aquiline face which looked very clever. His talk was
brilliantly witty. When he spoke people paused as if they could not
bear to lose a phrase or even a word. But in the midst of the trills
of laughter surrounding him his eyes were unchangingly sad. His face
laughed or smiled, but his eyes never.
"He is the greatest artist in England and the most brilliant man," Mrs.
MacNairn said to me, quietly. "But he is the saddest, too. He had a
lovely daughter who was killed instantly, in his presence, by a fall.
They had been inseparable companions and she was the delight of his
life. That strange, fixed look has been in his eyes ever since. I know
you have noticed it."
We were walking about among the flower-beds after tea, and Mr.
Pages:
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52