hideous weakness ran like nausea through her entire body. The
brilliant terrace swam in a mass of mingled colours before her
eyes; the casual, happy chatter about her was brassy and
unintelligible. The hand with which she touched the sugar tongs
was icy cold, a pain split her forehead, and she felt suddenly
tired and broken. She sat perfectly still, like a trembling little
mouse in a trap, the colour drained from her face, her breast
rising and falling as if she had been running.

Ward had gone across to greet the Bellamys; Harriet fixed her eyes
with a sort of fascination upon the man to whom she presently saw
him talking. Almost everyone else in the group was looking at him,
too; Royal Blondin was used to it; one of his favourite
affectations was an apparent unconsciousness of being observed.

He talked to everyone, to children, to great persons and small,
with the same air of intense concentration with which he was now
honouring Ward. Well over six feet in height, he had dropped his
leonine head, with its thick locks of dark hair, a little on one
side; his mobile, thin lips were set, and his piercing eyes
searched the boy's face with a sort of passionate attention.

His figure was one to challenge attention anywhere. He wore a
loosely cut suit of pongee silk, the collar of the shirt flowing
open, and a blue scarf knotted at the throat. On one of his long
dark hands there was a blazing sapphire ring, and about his wide-
brimmed Panama hat the folded silk was of the same colour. Harriet
could catch the intonations of his voice, a deep and musical
voice, which turned the trifles they were discussing into matters
of sudden import and beauty.