glimpse of Mr. Marsh, fixing his brilliant scrutiny first on one and
then on another of the company. At that moment he was gazing at Nelly
Powers, "taking her in" thought Marise, from her beautiful hair to those
preposterously high-heeled shoes she always would wear on her shapely
feet. His face was impassive. When he looked neutral like that, the
curious irregularity of his features came out strongly. He looked like
that bust of Julius Caesar, the bumpy, big-nosed, strong-chinned one,
all but that thick, closely cut, low-growing head of dark hair.

She glanced at Mr. Welles, and was surprised to find that he was looking
neither at the people nor the plant. His arm was around his favorite
Paul, but his gaze seemed turned inward, as though he were thinking of
something very far away. He looked tired and old, it seemed to her, and
without that quietly shining aspect of peace which she found so
touching. Perhaps he was tired. Perhaps she ought not to have brought
him out, this evening, for that long walk over rough country roads. How
much older he was than his real age in years! His life had used him up.
There must have been some inner maladjustment in it!

There was a little stir in the company, a small inarticulate sound from
Elly. Marise saw everyone's eyes turn to the center of the room and
looked back to the plant. The big pink bud was beginning visibly to
swell.

A silence came into the room. No one coughed, or stirred, or scraped a
chair-leg. It was as though a sound would have wounded the flower. All
those human souls bowed themselves. Almost a light shone upon them . . . a
phrase from Dante came to Marise's mind . . . "_la mia menta fu percossa
da un fulgore_ . . ."