He saw
her in a luminous perspective of palatial drawing rooms, in the restless
eddy and flow of a human sea, at the foot of walls high as cliffs, under
lofty ceilings that like a tropical sky flung light and heat upon the
shallow glitter of uniforms, of stars, of diamonds, of eyes sparkling
in the weary or impassive faces of the throng at an official reception.
Outside he had found the unavoidable darkness with its aspect of patient
waiting, a cloudy sky holding back the dawn of a London morning. It was
difficult to believe.
Lingard, who had been looking dangerously fierce, slapped his thigh and
showed signs of agitation.
"By heavens, I had forgotten all about you!" he pronounced in dismay.
Mrs. Travers fixed her eyes on Immada. Fairhaired and white she asserted
herself before the girl of olive face and raven locks with the maturity
of perfection, with the superiority of the flower over the leaf, of the
phrase that contains a thought over the cry that can only express an
emotion. Immense spaces and countless centuries stretched between
them: and she looked at her as when one looks into one's own heart
with absorbed curiosity, with still wonder, with an immense compassion.
Lingard murmured, warningly:
"Don't touch her."
Mrs. Travers looked at him.
"Do you think I could hurt her?" she asked, softly, and was so startled
to hear him mutter a gloomy "Perhaps," that she hesitated before she
smiled.
Pages:
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170