Page:Arthur Stringer - The Hand of Peril.djvu/321

 unopened letter, quite unconscious of his presence. He could see the same soft oval of the ivory-tinted face, the same wealth of chestnut-brown hair under the slightly tilted hat-brim, the same shadowy light about the violet-blue eyes, the same misty rose of the slightly puckered lips. And he knew, as he gazed at her with quickening pulse, not only that she was beautiful, that she was desirable with a loveliness which left an ache in his heart, but that his life had been empty because it had been empty of her.

He still sat there as she crossed the room and placed her paint-box on a table beside the bronze bowl heaped with Parma violets. She stooped for a moment, to bury her face in the flowers. When she raised her head again, she stopped and half turned about, as though some psychic current had carried to her the warning of his presence there.

Her bewildered gaze fell on him as he leaned forward with his elbows on the desk before him. That gaze seemed to encompass him for several moments before she became actually conscious of his presence. She did not move or cry out. But she grew paler in the side-light from the small electrolier above the table. Then a slow flush mantled the ivory-like texture of her skin, making the misty rose of the mouth less marked. He could see the widened pupil of the eye darken and invade the violet-blue iris. He could hear the quick and quite involuntary intake of her breath. But otherwise there was no movement from her. And the silence prolonged itself, foolishly yet epochally, until he suddenly realised the necessity for speech.

She put out one hand, as he rose to his feet, and