I was trying to study the girl before me as if she had been merely a
fact--a statue, a picture. But here was none of the calm certainty of art;
I was in the grip of a power, a living charm as mighty as elusive, no more
to be fixed in words than are the splendours of sunset. Yet I saw the
vital harmonies of her figure, the grace of every exquisite curve--the
firm, strong line of her white throat, the gracious poise of her head, her
sweeping lashes.
I looked down at her hands; they were of marvellous shape and tint, but I
missed a little sickle-shaped scar from the joint of the left thumb. I
knew the story of that scar. I had seen the child Nelly run to her mother
when the knife slipped while she was paring a piece of cocoanut for the
Saturday pie-baking. That scar was part of Helen; I loved it. I felt a
sudden revolt against this goddess who usurped little Nelly's place, and
said that she had changed. Why was she looking at me? What did she want?
"You are the most beautiful woman in the world," said a choked voice that
I hardly recognised as my own.
Instantly the joy light shone again from her face, bathing me in its
sunshine, and the world was fair.
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