She looked at him searchingly for a moment. As yet she had not
succeeded in placing him. His features were large but well-shaped, his
cheek-bones a little high, his forehead massive, his deep-set eyes
bright and marvellously penetrating. He had a mouth long and firm, with
a slightly humorous twist at the corners. His hair was black and
plentiful. He might have been of any age between thirty-five and forty.
His limbs and body were powerful; his head was set with the poise of an
emperor. His clothes were correct and well worn, he was entirely at his
ease. Yet Elisabeth, who was an observant person, looked at him and
wondered. He would have been more at home, she thought, out in the
storms of life than in her uncle's drawing-rooms. Yet what was he? He
lacked the trimness of the soldier; of the debonair smartness of the
modern fighting man there was no trace whatsoever in his speech or
appearance. The politicians who were likely to be present she knew.
What was there left? An explorer, perhaps, or a colonial. Her
curiosity became imperious.

"You have not told me your name," she reminded him.

"My name is Maraton," he replied, a little grimly.

"You--Maraton!"

There was a brief silence--not without a certain dramatic significance
to the girl who stood there with slightly parted lips. The smooth
serenity of her forehead was broken by a frown; her beautiful blue eyes
were troubled. She seemed somehow to have dilated, to have drawn
herself up. Her air of politeness, half gracious, half condescending,
had vanished. It was as though in spirit she were preparing for battle.