There was something peculiarly
fascinating about this pictured face of Richard Kendrick's mother.
Whether it was the illusive likeness to the son, showing first in the
eyes, then in the mouth, which was one of extraordinary sweetness, it
was hard to tell. But the attempt to _analyze_ it was absorbing.
The sound of a quick step in the outer room, as it struck a bit of bare
floor between the costly rugs which lay thickly upon it, arrested her
attention. That was not Rosy's step! Roberta turned, a sudden fear upon
her, and saw the owner of the room standing, as if surprised out of
power to proceed, in the doorway.
Now, it was manifestly impossible for Roberta to know just how she
looked, standing there, as he had seen her for the instant before she
turned. From her head to her feet she was dressed in white, therefore
against the dull background of books and heavy, plain panelling above,
her figure stood out with the effect of a cameo. Her dusky hair under
her white hat-brim was the only shadowing in a picture which was to his
gaze all light and radiance. He stood staring at it, his own face
glowing. Then:
"Oh--_Roberta_!" he exclaimed, under his breath.
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