eyes, and there was a sort of still flash in them. Now that her
cheek was cool, they burned,--burned their own color, blue-gray that
deepened almost into black.

"I've a good will, however," she said slowly, "to find out what I
_can_ do. Perhaps neither you nor I know that, yet. Then I can make
up my mind. I rather believe in taking what comes. A bird in the
hand is worth two in the bush. Very likely nobody will ever care
particularly whether I'm spoilt or not. And if I'm spoilt for one
thing, I may be made for another. There have got to be all sorts of
people in the world, you know."

She was very handsome, with her white chin up, haughtily; her nose
making its straight, high line, as she turned her face half away;
her eyes so dark with will, and the curve of hurt pride in her lips
that yet might turn easily to a quiver. She spoke low and smooth;
her words dropped cool and clear, without a tone of temper in them;
if there was passionate force, it was from a fire far down.

If she could do so upon a stage; if she could look like that saying
other people's words--words out of a book: if she could feel into
the passions of a world, and interpret them; then, indeed! But
Marion Kent had never entered into heights and depths of thought and
of experience; she knew only Marion Kent's little passions as they
came to her, and spoke themselves in homely, unchoice words. Mrs.
Kemble or Charlotte Cushman might have made a study from that face
that would have served for a Queen Katharine; but Queen Katharine's
grand utterances would never have thrilled Marion Kent to wear the
look as she wore it now, piqued by the plain-speaking--and the _not_
speaking--of the young village carpenter.