Page:The Whisper on the Stair by Lyon Mearson (1924).djvu/202

 had noticed deep in the coils of Jessica’s hair. He liked that; there was nothing of the brazen chemistry about it that he always noticed in openly blonde hair, even though it was natural blonde; it was like the souls of some women—you had to dig rather deep before you got to it, but what a reward if you were lucky!

He rather liked that idea, not knowing that some of it was by Swinburne out of Browning. And then there was that tiny light in her eyes, away inside, deep, like a hidden pool in a cave where a level ray of the sunset just manages to touch it once, for an instant. Then it is gone—but you remember it for a long time. He believed he had seen the light like that in her eyes once; and he liked to pretend to himself that Teck had never seen it. Which probably, was true.

They saw the car from a distance as he maneuvered it around the many curves before he could draw up near them. But he caught a glimpse of a neat, trim little figure, and one or two flying wisps of hair; it was all he needed to establish her identity. Funny, wasn’t it, that he should know that nobody but Jessica could wear a dress like that—that nobody but Jessica, could have it blown by the wind in just that manner. He wondered whether she could recognize him at that distance—at any distance, no matter how great; he would have been surprised indeed to know that she could.

His car came to a grinding halt at the side of the house, where Jessica stood, waving her hand at him cordially.

“You would think that one could have seclusion, buried deep in Virginia⸺” she began, giving him her hand.

“Not so long as men aren’t like underground fishes,