hands! they don't seem made for anything but slender crayons and
watercolors, as if oils would weigh them down with the pigment; but
there is a nervy strength about them that could almost bend an ash.

Papa's breezy voice blew through the room next minute, welcoming him;
and then he told Lu to put up her jewels, and order luncheon, at which,
of course, the other wanted to see the jewels nearer; and I couldn't
stand that, but slipped down and walked right in, lifting my amber, and
saying, "Oh, but this is what you must look at!"

He turned, somewhat slowly, with such a lovely indifference, and let his
eyes idly drop on me. He didn't look at the amber at all; he didn't look
at me; I seemed to fill his gaze without any action from him, for
he stood quiet and passive; my voice, too, seemed to wrap him in a
dream,--only an instant; though then I had reached him.

"You've not forgotten Yone," said papa, "who went persimmon and came
apricot?"

"I've not forgotten Yone," answered he, as if half asleep. "But who is
this?"

"Who is this?" echoed papa. "Why, this is my great West Indian magnolia,
my Cleopatra in light colors, my"----

"Hush, you silly man!"

"This is she," putting his hands on my shoulders,--"Miss Giorgione
Willoughby."