she had magnified it so greatly. What, after all, did it amount
to--the awkwardness of a schoolgirl very properly ignored by a
guardian who could not be other than bored with her society.
_Tant pis!_ She could at least try to be polite. She turned
with the heroic intention of breaking the ice and plunging into
conversation, banal though it might be. But her eyes did not
arrive at his face, they were caught and held by his hand, lying
on the white cloth, turning and twisting an empty wine-glass
between long strong fingers. Hands fascinated her. They were
indicative of character, testimonies of individual peculiarities.
She was sensitive to the impression they conveyed. With the
limited material available she had studied them--nuns' hands,
priests' hands, hands of the various inmates of the houses where
she had stayed, and the hands of the man who had taught her. From
him she had learned more than the mere rudiments of her art; under
his tuition a crude interest had developed into a definite study,
and as she sat looking at Barry Craven's hand a sentence from one
of his lectures recurred to her--"there are in some hands,
particularly in the case of men, characteristics denoting certain
passions and attributes that jump to the eye as forcibly as if
they were expressions of face."

Engaged in present study she forgot her original purpose, noting
the salient points of a fresh type, enumerating details that formed
the composite whole. A strong hand that could in its strength be
merciless--could it equally in its strength be merciful? The strange
thought came unexpectedly as she watched the thin stem of the wineglass
turning rapidly and then more slowly until, with a little tinkle, it
snapped as the hand clenched suddenly, the knuckles showing white
through the tanned skin. Gillian drew a quick breath. Had she been