rounded and exquisite, and her movements as graceful as those of a doe.
Altogether she was doe-like, especially in the fineness of her lines
and her large and liquid eyes. She was a dark beauty, with rich brown,
waving hair, a clear olive complexion, a perfectly shaped mouth and very
red lips. To me she looked more Italian or Spanish than Anglo-Saxon, and
I believe that, as a matter of fact, she had some southern blood in her
on her father's side. She wore a dress of soft rose colour, and her only
ornaments were a string of pearls and a single red camellia. I could see
but one blemish, if it were a blemish, in her perfect person, and that
was a curious white mark upon her breast, which in its shape exactly
resembled the crescent moon.

The face, however, impressed me with other than its physical qualities.
It was bright, intelligent, sympathetic and, just now, happy. But I
thought it more, I thought it mystical. Something that her mother said
to her, probably about her dress, caused her smile to vanish for a
moment, and then, from beneath it as it were, appeared this shadow of
innate mysticism. In a second it was gone and she was laughing again;
but I, who am accustomed to observe, had caught it, perhaps alone of all
that company. Moreover, it reminded me of something.

What was it? Ah! I knew. A look that sometimes I had seen upon the face
of a certain Zulu lady named Mameena, especially at the moment of her
wonderful and tragic death. The thought made me shiver a little; I could
not tell why, for certainly, I reflected, this high-placed and fortunate
English girl had nothing in common with that fate-driven Child of Storm,
whose dark and imperial spirit dwelt in the woman called Mameena. They
were as far apart as Zululand is from Essex. Yet it was quite sure that
both of them had touch with hidden things.