“Black as the jade of Obsidian Cliffs,” Pape supplied, then corrected himself. “Yet that don’t seem an altogether proper simile, it is so soft. Of course, I’ve never touched it, sir, but I’ve an idea that the mountain moss, where we find the giant violets, would feel harsh to the hand that had smoothed your daughter’s hair.” “It would that. Thank God they didn’t blind my sense of touch! My fingers never tire of seeing Jane’s soft hair.” “Then your fingers must be able to see her lips, too, for they are as definitely dented as those of an antelope doe. And they’re as healthy a red as ever they could have been in her childhood—red as the sun when it gets over into Idaho. And the Teton Range itself can’t beat her for clean, strong lines. I’ve never seen a woman who was such a blend of delicacy and power as your Jane. Still or in movement, I admire to watch her.” Lauderdale leaned back into his chair with a sigh of satisfaction. “I used to call her ‘Little Lynx.’ There never was such a child for sinuousness. Ah, what a treat you’re giving me, Mr. Pape, to help me see again the beauties of my beautiful girl! Tell me—” The father’s voice lowered without loss of eagerness. His hands quavered forward, as though to supply the lack in his misted, striving eyes. “I want to know particularly about the expression of her face. Has the trouble I’ve brought upon her shadowed its brilliant paleness? Has it still that rare repose, with only a lift of the eyelid, a twitch of a corner of her lips or a quiver of her chin, to show the emotions beneath?” Pape drew back from the he-man habit of hiding his heart; then, after a thought, leaned forward again. Why hide from this one man who could be her true lover, yet no rival to himself? Why not show what he felt? He closed his eyes, the better and more companionably to picture Jane. He felt that they two, both sightless now, saw the same vision as he spoke. “I ain’t what you’d call up in art, sir. But I saw in Paris the finest statues in the world, or so they told me. The quiet of those still, white people sort of got on my imagination. Their suppression seemed to spoil me for the awful animation of the average face. Likely that’s why your Jane’s got me at first sight, although I hadn’t thought it out up to now. Hers is the first female face I ever was glad to watch in vain for a smile. There couldn’t be a marble paler or purer or with features finer lined. Just as I used to thank Heaven, looking at those statued ladies, that they couldn’t relax from their perfection, I feel like praying that Jane never will relax into a smile—until she smiles on me.” A crowded silence fell between, but did not separate them. Its most vital question the Westerner next answered bluntly, after his way.