a distance of—well, say the length of his pipe! He wondered what he would say—do! He sighed—and wondered why. Then he puffed furiously at his pipe until Bistre, coughing and sneezing, dragged himself away with a reproachful look from his round brown eyes.
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Had one coldly dissected the face
under the bonnet feature by feature,
one might have found cause for dissatisfaction.
Perhaps the face was a
trifle long for absolute beauty, the
cheeks a trifle too thin. Perhaps, too,
one might have found fault with the
chin; maybe it was a bit too firmly
formed for a woman's face, a little
too strong in contour despite its
smooth roundness. But Miles, for
once at least, was not analytical. To
him the face was absolutely the most
charming, the most wonderful, he had
