A close observer would occasionally have found something
cynical--even sinister--in Mark Telford's clear cut, smoothly chiseled
face, but at the moment when he wheeled slowly and faced these two there
was in it nothing but what was strong, refined and even noble. His eyes,
dark and full, were set deep under well hung brows, and a duskiness in the
flesh round them gave them softness as well as power. Withal there was a
melancholy as striking as it was unusual in him.
In spite of herself Mrs. Detlor felt her heart come romping to her throat,
for, whatever this man was to her now, he once was her lover. She grew hot
to her fingers. As she looked, the air seemed to palpitate round her, and
Mark Telford to be standing in its shining hot surf tall and grand. But,
on the instant, there came into this lens the picture she had seen in
George Hagar's studio that morning. At that moment Mildred Margrave and
Baron were entering at the other end of the long, lonely nave. The girl
stopped all at once and pointed toward Telford as he stood motionless,
uncovered. "See," she said, "how fine, how noble he looks!"
Mrs. Detlor turned for an instant and saw her.
Telford had gazed calmly, seriously, at Mrs. Detlor, wondering at nothing,
possessed by a strange, quieting feeling.
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