He was turned away from the door at their entrance, and Dot saw only
a massive head of straw-coloured hair above a neck that was burnt
brick-red. Then, laughing at some joke, he wheeled round again to the
table; and she saw his face....
It was the face of a Viking, deeply sunburnt, vividly alive. A fair
moustache covered his upper lip, and below it the teeth gleamed, white
and regular like the teeth of an animal in the wilderness. He had that
indescribable look of morning-time, of youth at its best, which only
springs in the wild. His eyes were intensely blue. They gazed straight
across at her with startling directness.
And suddenly Dot's heart gave a great jerk, and stood still. It was not
the first time that those eyes had looked into hers.
The moment passed. He bent himself over the table, poised for a stroke,
which she saw him execute a second later with a delicacy that thrilled
her strangely. Full well did she remember the deftness and the steadiness
of those brown hands. Had they not held her up, sustained her, in the
greatest crisis of her life?
Her heart throbbed on again with hard, uneven strokes. She was straining
her ears for the sound of his voice--that voice that had once spoken to
her quivering soul, pleading with her that she would at their next
meeting treat him--without prejudice. The memory thrilled through her.
This was the man for whose coming she had waited so long!
He had straightened himself again, and was coming round the table to
follow up his stroke.
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