gleamed upon
her small white teeth as her strong lips parted to speak the first
words. She was tall and supple, graceful as a panther, and her voice
rang and whispered and rang again in quick changes of tone, like a
waterfall in the woods in summer. With much of her mother's beauty, she
had inherited from her father the violent vitality of his youth. Yet she
was not noisy, though her manners were not like Francesca's. Her voice
rippled and rang, but she did not speak too loud. She moved swiftly and
surely, but not with rude haste. Nevertheless, it seemed to Francesca
that there must be some exaggeration somewhere. The elder woman at
first set it down as a remnant of schoolgirl shyness, and then at once
felt that she was mistaken, because there was not the smallest
awkwardness nor lack of self-possession about it. The contrast between
the young girl and Paul Griggs was so striking as to be almost violent.
He was cold and funereal in his leonine strength, and his face was more
like a mask than ever as he bowed and sat down in silence. When he did
not remind her of a gladiator, he made her think of a black lion with a
strange, human face, and eyes that were not exactly human, though they
did not remind her of any animal's eyes which she had ever seen.

As for Dalrymple, she thought that he was singularly haggard and worn
for a man apparently only in middle age. There was a certain imposing
air about him, which she liked. Besides, she rarely met foreigners, and
they interested her. She noticed that both men wore black coats and
carried their tall hats in their hands. They were therefore not artists,
nor to be classed with artists. She was still young enough to judge them
to some extent by details, to which people attached a good deal more
importance at that time than at present. She made up her mind in the
course of the next few minutes that both Dalrymple and Griggs belonged
to her own class, though she did not ask herself where the young
American had got his manners. But somehow, though Gloria fascinated her
eyes and her ears, she set down the girl as being inferior to her
father. She wondered whether Gloria's mother had not been an actress;
which was a curious reflexion, considering that the dead woman had been
of her own house and name.

After exchanging a few words with her guests, Francesca suggested that
they should cross to the other side and see the frescoes, adding that
Reanda was probably still at work.

"You