"You don't ask who he is?" said Kathryn.
"I don't want to know."
"Oh! Come! You mustn't feel as sulky as that. You'll want to ask
questions the moment you see him. I did. Everyone does. His name
is Donal Muir. He's Lord Coombe's heir. He'll be the Head of the
House of Coombe some day. Here he comes," quite excitedly, "Look!"
It was one of the tricks of Chance--or Fate--or whatever you will.
The dance brought him within a few feet of them at that very moment
and the slow walking steps he was taking held him--they were some
of the queer stealthy almost stationary steps of the Argentine
Tango. He was finely and smoothly fitted as the other youngsters
were, his blond glossed head was set high on a heroic column of
neck, he was broad of shoulder, but not too broad, slim of waist,
but not too slim, long and strong of leg, but light and supple
and firm. He had a fair open brow and a curved mouth laughing to
show white teeth. Robin felt he ought to wear a kilt and plaid and
that an eagle's feather ought to be standing up from a chieftain's
bonnet on the fair hair which would have waved if it had been
allowed length enough. He was scarcely two yards from her now and
suddenly--almost as if he had been called--he turned his eyes away
from Sara Studleigh who was the little thing in Christmas tree
scarlet. They were blue like the clear water in a tarn when the
sun shines on it and they were still laughing as his mouth was.
Pages:
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425