Apart from coloring, she was all Irish, of the type which has become famous the world over, and which in the opinion of men who have seen women in all countries, and have studied them, is the most beautiful type that exists in our time.

Ste. Marie was dark himself, and in the ordinary nature of things he should have preferred a fair type in women.  In theory, for that matter, he did prefer it, but it was impossible for him to sit near Coira O’Hara and watch her bent head and busy, hovering hands, and remain unstirred by her splendid beauty.  He found himself wondering why one kind of loveliness more than another should exert a potent and mysterious spell by virtue of mere proximity, and when the woman who bore it was entirely passive.  If this girl had been looking at him the matter would have been easy to understand, for an eye-glance is often downright hypnotic; but she was looking at the work in her hands, and, so far as could be judged, she had altogether forgotten his presence; yet the mysterious spell, the potent enchantment, breathed from her like a vapor, and he could not be insensible to it.  It was like sorcery.

The girl looked up so suddenly that Ste. Marie jumped.  She said: 

“You are not a very talkative person.  Are you always as silent as this?”

“No,” said he, “I am not.  I offer my humblest apologies.  It seems as if I were not properly grateful for being allowed to sit here with you, but, to tell the truth, I was buried in thought.”

They had begun to talk in French, but midway of Ste. Marie’s speech the girl glanced toward the old Michel, who stood a short distance away, and so he changed to English.

“In that case,” she said, regarding her work with her head on one side like a bird—­“in that case you might at least tell me what your thoughts were.  They might be interesting.”

Ste. Marie gave a little embarrassed laugh.

“I’m sorry,” said he, “but I’m afraid they were too personal.  I’m afraid if I told you you’d get up and go away and be frigidly polite to me when next we passed each other in the garden here.  But there’s no harm,” he said, “in telling you one thing that occurred to me.  It occurred to me that, as far as a young girl can be said to resemble an elderly woman, you bear a most remarkable resemblance to a very dear old friend of mine who lives near Dublin—­Lady Margaret Craith.  She’s a widow, and almost all of her family are dead, I believe—­I didn’t know any of them—­and she lives there in a huge old house with a park, quite alone with her army of servants.  I go to see her whenever I’m in Ireland, because she is one of the sweetest souls I have ever known.”

He became aware suddenly that Mlle. O’Hara’s head was bent very low over her sewing and that her face, or as much of it as he could see, was crimson.

“Oh, I—­I beg your pardon!” cried Ste. Marie.  “I’ve done something dreadful.  I don’t know what it is, but I’m very, very sorry.  Please forgive me if you can!”