elaborations of lace and ribbons might have passed on the deal boards of
Trouville. Here at Annemasse her superfineness condemned her.

Chayne would have thought no more of her, but as he passed her table on
his way out of the buffet his eyes happened to fall on the book which so
engrossed her. There was a diagram upon the page with which he was
familiar. She was reading an old volume of the "Alpine Journal." Chayne
was puzzled--there was so marked a contradiction between her outward
appearance and her intense absorption in such a subject as Alpine
adventure. He turned at the door and looked back. Sylvia Thesiger had
raised her head and was looking straight at him. Thus their eyes met, and
did more than meet.

Chayne, surprised as he had been by the book which she was reading, was
almost startled by the gentle and rather wistful beauty of the face which
she now showed to him. He had been prepared at the best for a fresh
edition of the mother's worn and feverish prettiness. What he saw was
distinct in quality. It seemed to him that an actual sympathy and
friendliness looked out from her dark and quiet eyes, as though by
instinct she understood with what an eager exultation he set out upon his
holiday. Sylvia, indeed, living as she did within herself, was inclined
to hero-worship naturally; and Chayne was of the type to which, to some
extent through contrast with the run of her acquaintance, she gave a high
place in her thoughts. A spare, tall man, clear-eyed and clean of
feature, with a sufficient depth of shoulder and wonderfully light of
foot, he had claimed her eyes the moment that he entered the buffet.
Covertly she had watched him, and covertly she had sympathized with the
keen enjoyment which his brown face betrayed. She had no doubts in her
mind as to the intention of his holiday; and as their eyes met now
involuntarily, a smile began to hesitate upon her lips. Then she became