"Looking up so, his face is like what Romeo's must have been," she said
to herself with an answering romantic impulse. "Surely he is Italian!"
And he, looking up at her, said, "What a picture of Giulietta on the
balcony! Is she French, Italian, Russian?"
The man was a Roman, whose American mother had not robbed him of an
ardent temperament that leaned toward romance; and he had just come back
to the west across the sea, from a romantic mission in the east. He had
not exchanged words with a woman for months, in the desert where he had
been living. For this reason, perhaps, he was the readier to find
romance in any lovely pair of eyes; but it seemed to him that there
never had been such eyes as these. For always, in a man's life, there
must be one pair of eyes which are transcendent stars, even if they are
seen but once, then lost forever.
This was not his train, for the _luxe_ does not take local passengers,
in the season when every place is filled between Paris and Nice; but
because of Mary's face, he wished to travel with her, and look into her
eyes again, in order to make sure if they really held the magic of that
first glance.
He found a train-attendant and spoke with him rapidly, in a low voice,
making at the same time a suggestive chinking of gold and silver with
one hand in his pocket.
IV
Under the golden sunshine, the _luxe_ steamed on: after Toulon no longer
tearing through the country with few pauses, but stopping at many
stations.
Pages:
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68