It was very hard--high cheek-bones from which
the flesh drooped in hollows to the jaws, the grey eyes well set,
neither deep nor prominent, but flinching at nothing. There was no
great show of intellectuality in the forehead--it was broad, smooth,
but not high; yet none of the features were small. The jaw was square,
the upper lip long. At one end the mouth seemed to bend upwards in
a twist of irony, rather than humour, and the lips themselves were
thin--lips that could cut each word to a point if they chose, before
they uttered it, a mouth by no means sensitive to the hard things
it could speak.
To Sally it both feared and fascinated. Whenever he was not looking,
she could not take her eyes away. In the pictures in her mind, it
showed itself most often in ironic rage; yet he could look at her
with an expression that wooed the softest of thoughts in her heart.
Then she felt a slave, and would have given him the world, held in
her fingers, the gift would have seemed so small.
He looked up quickly from his plate--all motions of his head were
alert. "Why don't you begin your soup?" he asked.
She laughed quietly, and commenced at once with childlike obedience.
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