Feather was in fact listening with a gentle air and with her eyelids
down drooped to the exact line harmonious with the angelic little
poke bonnet.

"It is Mrs. Robert Gareth-Lawless--'Feather' we call her," he was
answered. "Was there ever anything more artful than that startling
little smoky dress? If it was flame colour one wouldn't see it as
quickly."

"One wouldn't look at it as long," said Coombe. "One is in danger
of staring. And the little hat--or bonnet--which pokes and is
fastened under her pink ear by a satin bow held by a loose pale
bud! Will someone rescue me from staring by leading me to her. It
won't be staring if I am talking to her. Please."

The paleness appeared again as on being led across the grass he
drew nearer to the copper beech. He was still rather pale when
Feather lifted her eyes to him. Her eyes were so shaped by Nature
that they looked like an angel's when they were lifted. There are
eyes of that particular cut. But he had not talked to her fifteen
minutes before he knew that there was no real reason why he should
ever again lose his colour at the sight of her. He had thought at
first there was. With the perception which invariably marked her
sense of fitness of things she had begun in the course of the
fifteen minutes--almost before the colour had quite returned to
his face--the story of her husband's idea of her soul, as a balloon
of pink and blue gauze spangled with paillettes. And of her own
inspiration of wearing it floating from her shoulder or her hair
by the light sparkling chain--and with delicate ribbon streamers.