I was wondering why no one spoke to her, why
she spoke to no one, when I saw her sink into a chair on the other side
of Mr. Vanderbridge and unfold her napkin. She was quite young, younger
even than Mrs. Vanderbridge, and though she was not really beautiful,
she was the most graceful creature I had ever imagined. Her dress was of
gray stuff, softer and more clinging than silk, and of a peculiar misty
texture and colour, and her parted hair lay like twilight on either side
of her forehead. She was not like any one I had ever seen before--she
appeared so much frailer, so much more elusive, as if she would vanish
if you touched her. I can't describe, even months afterwards, the
singular way in which she attracted and repelled me.
At first I glanced inquiringly at Mrs. Vanderbridge, hoping that she
would introduce me, but she went on talking rapidly in an intense,
quivering voice, without noticing the presence of her guest by so much
as the lifting of her eyelashes. Mr. Vanderbridge still sat there,
silent and detached, and all the time the eyes of the stranger--starry
eyes with a mist over them--looked straight through me at the tapestry
on the wall. I knew she didn't see me and that it wouldn't have made the
slightest difference to her if she had seen me. In spite of her grace
and her girlishness I did not like her, and I felt that this aversion
was not on my side alone.
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