He was wearing his best and
Ruth thought with a leap of her heart, that she had not known till now
how handsome he was. His hair was fairer than she had thought, as fair
as hers was dark, and she liked it all the better for that. His eyes
were gray and clear and steady and fearless. He had a proud way, too, of
throwing up his head, as if he tossed away all petty thoughts. She saw
him do this as he crossed the greensward, coming straight to her side.
It pleased her that he did not stop for a single glance round. She felt
his unlikeness to another man, when she saw that he had no thought of
any eyes that might be upon himself. And because of this comparison, and
the pang of uneasiness and self-reproach which it brought, she blushed
when her eyes met his as she had not done heretofore.
There is little use in trying to put into words what he thought of her,
or what any true lover thinks of the beloved. The rose of the dawn, and
the breath of the zephyr were not glowing or delicate enough to portray
Ruth as she was to Paul that day. The beauty of her face under the gypsy
hat; the witchery of her dark blue eyes smiling up at him; the pink
roses blooming on her fair cheeks; the red rose of her perfect
mouth--all this gave him at a glance a likeness of her to lay away in
his memory: a vivid flashing, imperishable treasure to keep forever.
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