That certainly he could feel supremely, experience in himself. He let his gaze rest upon her. The fine black hair, bobbed at last in spite of Aunt Mathilda’s anxious objections, made a quaint pattern on the face. Against it the glow of her skin and lips was the more brilliant by contrast, and beneath the white angle of brow, the eyes, looking suddenly at him from the page, were as clear, cool, vivid blue as violets in a snowbank. There was in that face the necessary balance between strength and frailty, self-possession and emotion, at least, so he thought, the features not quite absolutely regular. He preferred that touch of oddness; it was the stamp of her will, her curious insights, her traits of unusual justice. It mitigated too much beauty. Greek models were all very well in statues, but in a woman one wanted a lively difference.... Moira’s book suddenly snapped shut, as though his slowly relished inspection were too much for her. Her short laugh came like a chain of melody from her whole body. “Poor Hal,” she cried, “aren’t you sorry you will have to listen to Swinburne all your life?” He reached out an Indian forearm and drew her to him. They were silent for a long time. Then she sat back, her eyes admiring the relaxed strength of his body. “God!” he muttered, “and I once thought because we were cousins this could never happen--I should never be allowed to speak.” “Such a good little boy,” she said. “You would have waited to be allowed.” “It’s odd how I’ve never been able to think of you as Aunt’s daughter.” “Neither have I,” she replied. “But it is easy to explain. It takes a man--a father--about the house to establish parentage. Mother is a dilettante on her job, anyway. But I have some qualities from her, I know.... What _was_ father like?” “I wasn’t exactly his playmate, you know!” he laughed. “I don’t remember him any more than you do. But he must have been a regular, from all I’ve heard. He was your father, all right.” “H’m.... Ned Seymour _sounds_ like a man who might be my father. And names are wonderful--better than portraits--to read people by. I can’t tell much by father’s looks. Poor Daddy, Maman stood by him, I’m glad of that. She’s always been a heretic among her own. But if Daddy was so ambitious, so indifferent to the world and all that, why didn’t he leave me a sign, why didn’t he leave glorious works? He should have.” “He left you,” laughed Hal. “The work of an idle moment.” “Aren’t they the best? But I rather like that about your father, the fact that he was a spectator rather than a spouter. So many darned people aren’t content with their limitations. They have to puddle about with paint and ink.” “As I do.” “It’s yours by right, I suppose. At least, you really like it.”