The pretty woman fades with the
roses on her cheeks, and the girlhood that lasts an hour; the beautiful
woman finds her fullness of bloom only when a past has written itself on
her, and her power is then most irresistible when it seems going.
From under their half-closed lids the keen eyes looked down at her. Her
shoulders were bent; for a moment the little figure had forgotten its
queenly bearing, and drooped wearily; the wide, dark eyes watched the fire
very softly.
It certainly was not in her power to resist him, nor any strength in her
that made his own at that moment grow soft as he looked at her.
He touched one little hand that rested on her knee.
"Poor little thing!" he said; "you are only a child."
She did not draw her hand away from his, and looked up at him.
"You are very tired?"
"Yes."
She looked into his eyes as a little child might whom a long day's play had
saddened.
He lifted her gently up, and sat her on his knee.
"Poor little thing!" he said.
She turned her face to his shoulder, and buried it against his neck; he
wound his strong arm about her, and held her close to him. When she had
sat for a long while, he drew with his hand the face down, and held it
against his arm. He kissed it, and then put it back in its old resting-
place.
"Don't you want to talk to me?"
"No.
Pages:
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318