I gave it up at last
with a sigh--dreading the hour that would call the downstairs to meet
Mr. Vanderbridge. I felt in every nerve and fibre of my body that I
should hate him the moment I looked at him.
But at eight o'clock, when I went reluctantly downstairs, I had a
surprise. Nothing could have been kinder than the way Mr. Vanderbridge
greeted me, and I could tell as soon as I met his eyes that there wasn't
anything vicious or violent in his nature. He reminded me more than
ever of the portrait in the loan collection, and though he was so much
older than the Florentine nobleman, he had the same thoughtful look. Of
course I am not an artist, but I have always tried, in my way, to be a
reader of personality; and it didn't take a particularly keen observer
to discern the character and intellect in Mr. Vanderbridge's face. Even
now I remember it as the noblest face I have ever seen; and unless I had
possessed at least a shade of penetration, I doubt if I should have
detected the melancholy. For it was only when he was thinking deeply
that this sadness seemed to spread like a veil over his features. At
other times he was cheerful and even gay in his manner; and his rich
dark eyes would light up now and then with irrepressible humour. From
the way he looked at his wife I could tell that there was no lack of
love or tenderness on his side any more than there was on hers.
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