Page:The Whisper on the Stair by Lyon Mearson (1924).djvu/68

 —“The Master” in the excellent translation of Glazer. He nodded approvingly—this girl had a comfortable taste in literature. He was engaged in examining the latter book when the portières parted and she entered, standing for a moment against the portières, with her copper burnished hair flying against the deep blue in a contrast that would have brought joy to the heart of Velasquez.

He was on his feet in an instant, never taking his eyes from her—actually eating her up with his burning eyes. Her gown, of some soft stuff that lay lovingly next to the white skin of her neck and flared out into panniers at the hips, had a touch of green in it—the touch of green that every light haired girl knows so well how to employ.

Her eyes were two seas of troubled color, and in her cheeks flared two bright spots that were all the more ravishing for the fact that they never came out of a drug store. He could see that she recognized him instantly—the flash of surprise that came into her eyes told him that. Her hand went to her throat in a queer motion, as though her breath came hard, and came away again wearily, down to her side.

“Mr. Morley?” she inquired, and Val had to admit to himself that never had he heard music that was comparable to her intonation of his name. It was like a harp in the south wind, he told himself. He bowed.

“I must apologize for this intrusion,” he began in the conventional form, though his whole being cried out against it. Apologize for nothing! He was here because he wanted to be, and a whole battalion of police couldn’t keep him away.

“I must apologize for this intrusion,” he said again, and she smiled.