veiled, but they were unfathomably those of one deeply in love. She did
not know how to hide the emotions with which she was so painfully
struggling. Pride and joy in him; shyness and a sort of dread; hunger
and reserve--Keith might have read them all, so plainly were they
written. Yet her first words were wounded and defiant.

"The man ... that man.... He _knew_ I was coming," she said, in a voice
of reproach. "You were pretty sure I should come, you know."

Keith said quietly:

"I _hoped_ you would." And then he lowered his eyes. She was disarmed,
and they both knew.

Keith Redington was nearly six feet in height. He was thin, and even
bony; but he was very toughly and strongly built, and his face was as
clean and brown as that of any healthy man who travels far by sea. He
was less dark than Jenny, and his hair was almost auburn, so rich a
chestnut was it. His eyes were blue and heavily lashed; his hands were
long and brown, with small freckles between the knuckles. He stood with
incomparable ease, his hands and arms always ready, but in perfect
repose. His lips, for he was clean-shaven, were keen and firm. His
glance was fearless. As the phrase is, he looked every inch a sailor,
born to challenge the winds and the waters. To Jenny, who knew only
those men who show at once what they think or feel, his greater breeding
made Keith appear inscrutable, as if he had belonged to a superior race.
She could only smile at him, with parted lips, not at all the baffling
lady of the mirror, or the contemptuous younger sister, or the daring
franctireur of her little home at Kennington Park. Jenny Blanchard she
remained, but the simple, eager Jenny to whom these other Jennies were