Gyp had seen
Summerhay long before he saw her; seen him come in and fold his opera
hat against his white waistcoat, looking round, as if for--someone. Her
eyes criticized him in this new garb--his broad head, and its crisp,
dark, shining hair, his air of sturdy, lazy, lovable audacity. He looked
well in evening clothes. When he sat down, she could still see just a
little of his profile; and, vaguely watching the stout Santuzza and the
stouter Turiddu, she wondered whether, by fixing her eyes on him, she
could make him turn and see her. Just then he did see her, and his
face lighted up. She smiled back. Why not? She had not so many friends
nowadays. But it was rather startling to find, after that exchange of
looks, that she at once began to want another. Would he like her dress?
Was her hair nice? She wished she had not had it washed that morning.
But when the interval came, she did not look round, until his voice
said:
"How d'you do, Major Winton? Oh, how d'you do?"
Winton had been told of the meeting in the train. He was pining for
a cigarette, but had not liked to desert his daughter. After a few
remarks, he got up and said:
"Take my pew a minute, Summerhay, I'm going to have a smoke."
He went out, thinking, not for the first time by a thousand: 'Poor
child, she never sees a soul! Twenty-five, pretty as paint, and clean
out of the running.
Pages:
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284