if it were only a flower. To Anne, it always seemed to symbolise Leslie’s glowing, pent-up personality, denied all expression save in that flaming glint. Leslie’s dress was cut a little away at the neck and had short sleeves. Her arms gleamed like ivory-tinted marble. Every exquisite curve of her form was outlined in soft darkness against the light. Her hair shone in it like flame. Beyond her was a purple sky, flowering with stars over the harbor.
Anne heard her companion give a gasp. Even in the dusk she could see the amazement and admiration on his face.
“Who is that beautiful creature?” he asked.
“That is Mrs. Moore,” said Anne. “She is very lovely, isn’t she?”
“I—I never saw anything like her,” he answered, rather dazedly. “I wasn’t prepared—I didn’t expect—good heavens, one doesn’t expect a goddess for a landlady! Why, if she were clothed in a gown of sea-purple, with a rope of amethysts in her hair, she would be a veritable sea-queen. And she takes in boarders!”
“Even goddesses must live,” said Anne. “And Leslie isn’t a goddess. She’s just a very beautiful woman, as human as the rest of us. Did Miss Bryant tell you about Mr. Moore?”
“Yes,—he’s mentally deficient, or something of the sort, isn’t he? But she said nothing about Mrs. Moore, and I supposed she’d be the usual hustling
