, colours?

I had no doubt which of the two was Carson Wildred, Farnham's friend and
host. What he had said of the man's personality assured me of his
identity.

It was passing strange to me that I should be so strongly impressed by
the feeling that I had seen the face before, under startling and
disagreeable circumstances, and yet be unable to identify it. Something
seemed to be lacking, or changed, which broke the chain of evidence in
my mind. Surely I should have been able to remember that peculiar nose,
with the flattened bridge, now presented to me in profile.

It would be a sign of a lacking bump of observation to have forgotten
the angle of that protruding lower jaw, and the strong contrast between
the almost copper-coloured skin, jet black hair, and large, brilliant
blue eyes--so light as to appear almost white.

It was impossible, I told myself, that I had met the man before. His
remarkable and uncommon cast of features had no niche in my
recollection, and yet I _knew_ that in some crucial moment I had
looked into those pale and scintillating eyes.

A wave of repulsion swept over me. I could not remember when I had
experienced two such keen emotions as my surprised admiration for the
girl, and the dislike, almost amounting to disgust, which I felt for
Farnham's friend, Carson Wildred. Something deeper than mere annoyance
surged in my breast, that that dark personality should lurk so near to
the spotless whiteness of the gauzy drapery, which vaguely seemed to me
a part of the girl's self.

"Eh? What did you say? How do you like his looks? Peculiar face, isn't
it?" queried Farnham, close to my ear.

"Yes, it is peculiar," I answered, mechanically, snatching at the
phrase.

"And the girl! Isn't she something rather choice?"

"Very lovely. Who is she?"

"A Miss Karine Cunningham. Same name as the mine that Wildred is going
to take off my hands. Merely a coincidence, but I fancy it influenced
him in his wish to buy the property, perhaps. He is very much in love
with the girl, and rich as he apparently is, she can more than match
him, I should say. She's an orphan, whose father, though he came of what
you English call a 'good family,' made his pile in trade; and Sir Walter
Tressidy, who is in the box with his wife, was her guardian until she
came of age, about a year ago. She still lives with them, and Lady
Tressidy takes her about. All these things Wildred, who is never so
happy as when he is talking of