NIGHT AND MORNING
tian would have been magnificent, inspiring as a creature of wondrous physical might; he would be a feast for the eye of the artist, the sculptor, the athlete, the anatomist—but sleek, well fed, in fine linen, well groomed, and that through the efforts of a white man, lolling back upon rich upholstery—in such a setting he became obnoxious, odious, repellent. Though he had saved her life and Giles's a hundred times he could be like nothing but a great black spider in a silken web thrown from the calyx of a lily. The thought of it made her a trifle ill.
"Odd," thought Virginia, "that the others do not see it so." For the second it made her feel a shade differently toward Sir Henry and Giles. Her unpleasant fancies were cut short by the entrance of Lady Maltby. Giles sprang to greet her.
"Hullo, mumsey!" He drew out her chair, arranged her footstool, dropped the shade a trifle to screen the sunlight from her eyes. One would have judged Giles's mother to be an elder sister; she was but eighteen years his senior, and looked half of that, if in a gay mood when one did not observe the thoughtfulness of her clear, blue eyes, and the tiny lines forming at the corners of mouth and eyes. Her greatest charm was perfect femininity; with her, instinct supplanted reason; personal liking endowed its fortunate object with all virtues and antipathy found not a single one. She was finely made, well contained, pretty as a débutante, warm hearted, and a fierce hater for perhaps five minutes. Giles resembled her in height, fullness of limb, complexion, and they had the same sapphire eyes. He was however far less subtle.
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