Its lines coincided with the
lines of her figure. Her hat, trimmed to match, formed a magic
halo for her hair; and it, in turn, was the entrancing frame in
which her small, quiet, pallid face was set--that delicate,
sensitive face, from which shone, now softly and now brilliantly,
those hazel eyes a painter could have borrowed for a wood nymph.
In the doorway, before greeting him, she paused.
"Williams," she called, and Craig was thrilled by her "high-bred"
accent, that seemed to him to make of the English language a
medium different from the one he used and heard out home.
"Yes, ma'am," came the answer in the subtly-deferential tone of
the aristocracy of menialdom, conjuring for Craig, with the aid of
the woman herself and that aristocratic old room, a complete
picture of the life of upper-class splendor.
"Did you order the carriage, as I asked?"
"Yes, ma'am; it's at the door."
"Thank you." And Margaret turned upon an overwhelmed and dazzled
Craig. He did not dream that she had calculated it all with a view
to impressing him--and, if he had, the effect would hardly have
been lessened. Whether planned or not, were not toilette and
accent, and butler and carriage, all realities? Nor did he suspect
shrewd calculations upon snobbishness when she said: "I was in
such haste to dress that I hurt my poor maid's hand as she was
lacing my boot"--she thrust out one slender, elegantly-clad foot--
"no, buttoning it, I mean.
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