Below is written, in a round,
sprawling hand, "To Sanchia from Percy." Both the workers are intent upon
their task, with no idea that they are posing. The girl has a Greek face,
and a very fine pair of legs heedlessly displayed. The man is as thin as a
gypsy. Out of the dark in which his face is hidden gleam his white teeth.
A classical, rather than romantic scene. The absence of draperies suggest
it; but the absence of self-consciousness is conclusive.
But I keep Miss Percival too long at the fender. She had been standing
there for some minutes after her entry, first re-reading her telegram,
next stroking her chin with it. She was thoughtful still, and still
smiling. Once she looked over her shoulder through the window to the dying
day, and lightly sighed. The time was April's end, and had been squally,
with violent storms; but the last onslaughts of the north-wester had
routed the rain-clouds. The day was dying under a clear saffron sky, and a
thrush piped its mellow elegy. Miss Percival heard him, and listened,
smiling with her lips, and with her eyes also which the serene light
soothed. Her lips barely moved, just relaxed their firm embrace, but no
more. She held the light gratefully with her eyes, seemed unwilling to
lose a moment of it, wistful to be still out of doors.
Pages:
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67