Even
Roger, turning idly, uttered an exclamation of surprised interest.
She was dressed in a plain, close-fitting riding-habit which hid
nothing of the undulating grace of her active young body. In her hand
she carried the riding-quirt and the spurs which she had not had time
to leave behind. Her wide, soft gray hat was pushed back so that her
face was unhidden. And as she walked by her eyes rested for a fleeting
second upon the eyes of Greek Conniston.
Her cheeks were flushed rosily from her race, the warm, rich blood
creeping up to the untanned whiteness of her brow. But he did not
realize these details until she had gone by; not, in fact, until he
began to think of her. For in that quick flash he saw only her eyes.
And to this man who had known the prettiest women who drive on Fifth
Avenue and dine at Sherry's and wear wonderful gowns to the
Metropolitan these were different eyes. Their color was elusive, as
elusive as the vague tints upon the desert as dusk drifts over it;
like that calm tone of the desert resolved into a deep, unfathomable
gray, wonderfully soft, transcendently serene. And through the
indescribable color as through untroubled skies at dawn there shone
the light which made her, in some way which he could not entirely
grasp, different from the women he had known. He merely felt that
their light was softly eloquent of frankness and health and cleanness.
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