A silence fell, and it was as if Renouard were not going to say anything more when, suddenly, he came out with the real object of his visit to the editorial room.

“They looked to me like people under a spell.”

The Editor gazed at him appreciatively, thinking that, whether the effect of solitude or not, this was a proof of a sensitive perception of the expression of faces.

“You omitted to tell me their name, but I can make a guess.  You mean Professor Moorsom, his daughter and sister—­don’t you?”

Renouard assented.  Yes, a white-haired lady.  But from his silence, with his eyes fixed, yet avoiding his friend, it was easy to guess that it was not in the white-haired lady that he was interested.

“Upon my word,” he said, recovering his usual bearing.  “It looks to me as if I had been asked there only for the daughter to talk to me.”

He did not conceal that he had been greatly struck by her appearance.  Nobody could have helped being impressed.  She was different from everybody else in that house, and it was not only the effect of her London clothes.  He did not take her down to dinner.  Willie did that.  It was afterwards, on the terrace. . . .

The evening was delightfully calm.  He was sitting apart and alone, and wishing himself somewhere else—­on board the schooner for choice, with the dinner-harness off.  He hadn’t exchanged forty words altogether during the evening with the other guests.  He saw her suddenly all by herself coming towards him along the dimly lighted terrace, quite from a distance.

She was tall and supple, carrying nobly on her straight body a head of a character which to him appeared peculiar, something—­well—­ pagan, crowned with a great wealth of hair.  He had been about to rise, but her decided approach caused him to remain on the seat.  He had not looked much at her that evening.  He had not that freedom of gaze acquired by the habit of society and the frequent meetings with strangers.  It was not shyness, but the reserve of a man not used to the world and to the practice of covert staring, with careless curiosity.  All he had captured by his first, keen, instantly lowered, glance was the impression that her hair was magnificently red and her eyes very black.  It was a troubling effect, but it had been evanescent; he had forgotten it almost till very unexpectedly he saw her coming down the terrace slow and eager, as if she were restraining herself, and with a rhythmic upward undulation of her whole figure.  The light from an open window fell across her path, and suddenly all that mass of arranged hair appeared incandescent, chiselled and fluid, with the daring suggestion of a helmet of burnished copper and the flowing lines of molten metal.  It kindled in him an astonished admiration.  But he said nothing of it to his friend the Editor.  Neither did he tell him that her approach woke up in his brain the image of love’s infinite grace and the sense of the inexhaustible joy that lives in beauty.  No!  What he imparted to the Editor were no emotions, but mere facts conveyed in a deliberate voice and in uninspired words.