Salvières smiled. “No,” he said, softly, “ever since as a lad I came to visit Basil’s grandmother at Tverna--years ago. She was the most exquisite creature one could imagine. Lovely, clever, able, wise, sweet as a flower, and so comprehending, so full of mercy and charity; the courage and spirit of a knight--perfection! Indeed, her personal magnetism and charm were so great that every man who approached her fell in love with her. And how gracefully she used to transform them into lifelong friends! Physically she was a wonder: little hands and feet that were a sculptor’s dream, an oval face lighted by violet eyes--yes, violet as the petals of deep larkspur; a mass of undulating hair--white as nacre at thirty, and almost as iridescent, it was so bright--and a poise, a _maintien_. I could become lyrical when I think of that exquisite woman, whom no one has ever quite resembled, excepting, perhaps, Marguerite de Plenhöel. Strangely enough, later on the ‘Gamin’ will assuredly be a second Véra Petrovna Chemensky. Qualities, manners, virtues, and talents are the same already, and even as she is now she always reminds me strongly of her.” Laurence was looking wide-eyed at him. Was Marguerite de Plenhöel going to pursue her even here? Extremely vexed, she curtly retorted: “You are lyrical enough, I assure you, to suit any taste, even the famous ‘Gamin’s’!” Salvières twirled the ends of his mustache with a familiar gesture. He felt annoyed, not only on account of the slighting reference to Marguerite, not only because he was not accustomed to be spoken to in that peevish manner, but because he was becoming aware of a decided sense of disquiet concerning Basil’s future happiness--Basil, who was as near and dear to him as if he had been his blood brother. Jean de Salvières had not expected to find in the twenty-year-old bride of his brother-in-law--who had been described to him as a well-born beauty--so pert and altogether uninhabitable a nature. Beautiful she certainly was--of that there could not be the faintest doubt--but her self-assertion, her cutting way of saying things, and her lack of punctilio, did not impress him as befitting so young a woman, and once again he tugged impatiently at his mustache. He was too frank to attempt playing her at the end of a line with the cunning and _savoir-faire_ of an angler (although this would have been easy enough to him) in order to pry more deeply into her character. Moreover, she repelled him. If he liked a person he showed it at once; if he disliked one, he made a point of having nothing more to do with him or with her; but here was a problem not soluble by either plan; for he could neither ignore her nor cast her aside, owing to many reasons, chief among which was the dawning conviction that in Basil’s interest it would be well if he followed up Laurence a little, helped her if he could, advised her, certainly.