as though they belonged to another face; his voice was gentle; and his laugh, which every now and then burst out naturally and clearly, was charming, had a note of kindliness, which softened all that was rough and threatening into something surprisingly lovable. In his vigorous, broad, powerful movements he had retained an almost unceremonious freedom, which most certainly remained to him from his workman years: an indifference to the chair in which he sat, to the mantelpiece against which he leant; an indifference which seemed a strong and virile, easy and natural grace in the man of culture whose hands had laboured: something original and almost impulsive, which, when it did not charm, was bound to appear antipathetic, rude and rough to any one who was expecting the manners prescribed by social convention for a gentleman in a drawing-room. Constance was sometimes surprised that she, of all women, was not offended by this unceremonious freedom, that she was even attracted by it; but a nervous girl like Marianne—herself a delicate, fragile little doll of boudoir culture—would tingle to her finger-tips with irritation at that impulsive naturalness, which was too spacious for her among the furniture of Aunt Constance' drawing-room. And a sort of uncontrollable resentment surged through her when Brauws came to where she sat and said:
"Do you always . . . take such an interest in evolution, freule?"
