promise of the one he knew; still there would be the upward curling lashes, the suggestion of a fault in the nose, the piquant curve of the short, upper lip, and perhaps that pervading, illusive something that was the secret of her charm.  “You were right, David, old man,” he said at last, “it was a face to fight for, wait for.  And madam, madam, a woman with a face like yours must have had some capacity for loving.”

His hand was on the spring, but he did not press it.  A noise outside in the corridor arrested him.  He knew it was too soon for Banks to arrive, but he laid the watch back in the box and closed the lid.  “You will never marry Frederic Morganstein,” he said, and rising, began to walk the floor.  “It would be monstrous.  You must not.  You will not.  I shall not let you.”

CHAPTER XVIII

THE OPTION

Vivian count stood on the first hill.  The brick walls of the business center filled the levels below, and Mrs. Weatherbee’s windows, like Tisdale’s, commanded the inner harbor rimmed by Duwamish Head, with a broader sweep of the Sound beyond framed in wooded islands and the snow-peaks of the Olympic Peninsula.  Southeastward, from her alcove, lifted the matchless, solitary crest of Rainier.  It was the morning following the cruise on the Aquila, and Mrs. Weatherbee was taking a light breakfast in her room.  The small table, placed near an open casement, allowed her to enjoy both views.  She inhaled the salt breeze with the gentle pleasure of a woman whose sense has been trained, through generations, to fine and delicate perfumes; her eyes caught the sapphire sparkle of the sea, and her face had the freshness and warmth of a very young girl’s.  The elbow length of the sleeve exposed a forearm beautifully molded, with the velvety firmness of a child’s; and the wistaria shade of her empire gown intensified the blue tones in the dark masses of her hair.  In short, she stood for all that is refined, bright, charming in womanhood; and not for any single type, but a blending of the best in several; the “typical American beauty” that Miles Feversham had named her.

Her glance moved slowly among the shipping.  The great steamship leaving the Great Northern docks was the splendid liner Minnesota, sailing for Japan; the outbound freighter, laden to the gunwales and carrying a deckload of lumber, was destined for Prince William Sound.  She represented Morganstein interests.  And when her eyes moved farther, in the direction of the Yacht Club, there again was the Aquila, the largest speck in the moored fleet.  A shadow crossed her face.  She rose and, turning from the windows, stood taking an inventory that began with the piano, a Steinway mellowed by age, and ended at a quaint desk placed against the opposite wall.  It was very old; it had been brought in her great-grandfather’s time from Spain, and the carving, Moorish in design, had often roused the enthusiastic comment of her friends.  Appraising it, her brows ruffled a little; the short upper lip met the lower in a line of resolve.  She went to her telephone and found in the directory the number of a dealer in curios.  But as she reached for the receiver, she was interrupted by a knock and, closing the book hastily, put it down to open the door.